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diff --git a/3411-0.txt b/3411-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a6c3ddb --- /dev/null +++ b/3411-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7350 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Stokesley Secret, by Charlotte M. Yonge + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Stokesley Secret + + +Author: Charlotte M. Yonge + + + +Release Date: January 31, 2015 [eBook #3411] +[This file was first posted on April 9, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STOKESLEY SECRET*** + + +Transcribed from the 1902 Macmillan and Co. “Countess Kate and The +Stokesley Secret” edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + THE STOKESLEY SECRET + + + * * * * * + + BY + CHARLOTTE M. YONGE + + * * * * * + + London + MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited + NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + 1902 + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, + LONDON AND BUNGAY + + _Transferred to Macmillan and Co._, _Limited_, 1901. _Reprinted_, 1902. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +“HOW can a pig pay the rent?” + +The question seemed to have been long under consideration, to judge by +the manner in which it came out of the pouting lips of that sturdy young +five-year-old gentleman, David Merrifield, as he sat on a volume of the +great Latin Dictionary to raise him to a level with the tea-table. + +Long, however, as it had been considered, it was unheeded on account of +one more interesting to the general public assembled round the table. + +“I say!” hallooed out a tall lad of twelve holding aloft a slice taken +from the dish in the centre of the table, “I say! what do you call this, +Mary?” + +“Bread and butter, Master Sam,” replied rather pettishly the maid who had +brought in the big black kettle. + +“Bread and butter! I call it bread and scrape!” solemnly said Sam. + +“It only has butter in the little holes of it, not at the top, Miss +Fosbrook,” said, in an odd pleading kind of tone, a stout good-humoured +girl of thirteen, with face, hair, and all, a good deal like a nice +comfortable apricot in a sunny place, or a good respectable Alderney cow. + +“I think it would be better not to grumble, Susan, my dear,” replied, in +a low voice, a pleasant dark-eyed young lady who was making tea; but the +boys at the bottom of the table neither heard nor heeded. + +“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” was Sam’s cry, in so funny a voice, that +Miss Fosbrook could only laugh; “is this bread and scrape the fare for a +rising young family of genteel birth?” + +“Oh!” with a pathetic grimace, cried the pretty-faced though sandy-haired +Henry, the next to him in age, “if our beloved parents knew how their +poor deserted infants are treated—” + +“A fine large infant you are, Hal!” exclaimed Susan. + +“I’m an infant, you’re an infant, Miss Fosbrook is an infant—a babby.” + +“For shame, Hal!” cried the more civilized Sam, clenching his fist. + +“No, no, Sam,” interposed Miss Fosbrook, laughing, “your brother is quite +right; I am as much an infant in the eye of the law as little George.” + +“There, I said I would!” cried Henry; “didn’t I, Sam?” + +“Didn’t you what?” asked Susan, not in the most elegant English. + +“Why, Martin Greville twitted us with having a girl for a governess,” +said Henry; “he said it was a shame we should be taken in to think her +grown up, when she was not twenty; and I said I would find out, and now I +have done it!” he cried triumphantly. + +“Everybody is quite welcome to know my age,” said Miss Fosbrook, the +colour rising in her cheek. “I was nineteen on the last of April; but I +had rather you had asked me point blank, Henry, than tried to find out in +a sidelong way.” + +Henry looked a little surly; and Elizabeth, a nice-looking girl, who sat +next to him and was nearest in age, said, “Oh! but that would have been +so rude, Miss Fosbrook.” + +“Rude, but honest,” said Miss Fosbrook; and Susan’s honest eyes twinkled, +as much as to say, “I like that;” but she said, “I don’t believe Hal +meant it.” + +“I don’t care!” said Sam. “Come, Mary, this plate is done—more bread and +butter; d’ye hear? not bread and gammon!” and he began the chant, in +which six voices joined till it became a roar, pursuing Mary down to the +lower regions:— + + “Thick butter and thin bread, + Or it shall be thrown at Mary’s head; + Thick bread and thin butter, + Is only fit for the ducks in the gutter.” + +Elizabeth looked appealingly at Miss Fosbrook; but Miss Fosbrook was +leaning back in her chair, her handkerchief up to her mouth, in fits of +laughing, seeing which, the children bawled louder and louder; and +Elizabeth only abstained from stopping her ears because she knew that was +the sure way to be held fast, and have it bellowed into them. + +Little Annie blundered in her eagerness upon + + “Thick bread and thin butter,” + +whereupon there was a general outcry. “Nanny likes thick bread and thin +butter, let her have it!” and Sam, Henry, and Johnnie directed a whole +battery of their remaining crusts towards her cup, which would presently +have been upset into her lap but for Miss Fosbrook, who recovered +herself, and said gravely, “This must not be, Sam; I shall send you away +from the table if you do.” + +Sam wanted to see whether she would, and threw the crust. + +“Sam,” she said very decidedly, though there was a quiver in her voice, +as if she were frightened. + +Sam looked up, and did not move. + +“Oh, Miss Fosbrook!” cried Susan, “we were all just as bad. Don’t punish +Sam!” + +“It is time that Sam should show that he has the feelings of a manly +boy,” said Miss Fosbrook, looking full at him. “He knows that I must +keep my word, and that I have no strength to fight with him.—Sam, go and +finish your tea on the window-seat.” + +Her clear brown eyes looked full at him as she spoke, and all the young +population watched to see what he would do. He hesitated a moment, then +took up his cup and plate, and sat down in the window-seat. + +Miss Fosbrook breathed freely, and she had almost said, “Thank you, Sam,” +but she did not think this was the time; and collecting herself, she +said, “Fun is all very well, and I hope we shall have plenty, but we +ought not to let it grow riotous; and I don’t think it was of a good sort +when it was complaining of the food provided for us.” + +The children were all rather subdued by what she said; some felt a little +cross, and some rather ashamed; and when Mary brought back the dish +replenished with slices, no one said a word as to whether the butter were +thick or thin. The silence seemed to David a favourable occasion for +renewing the great question, “How does a pig pay the rent?” + +There was a general giggle, and again Miss Fosbrook was as bad as any: +while David, looking affronted, tapped the table with the handle of his +spoon, and repeated, “I want to know.” + +“I’ll tell you, Davy man,” began Henry, first recovering. “The pig is a +very sagacious animal, especially in Hampshire, and so he smells out +wherever the bags of money are sown underground, and digs them up with +his nose. Then he swings them on his back, and gives a curl of his tail +and a wink of his eye, and lays them down just before the landlord’s +feet; and he’s so cunning, that not an inch will he budge till he’s got +the receipt, with a stamp upon it, on his snout.” + +“No; now is that a true story?” cried little Annie, who was the only +person except David grave enough to speak; while Sam, exploding in the +window, called out, “Why, don’t you know that’s why pigs have rings in +their noses?” + + “There was a lady loved a swine; + ‘Honey,’ says she, + I’ll give you a silver trough.’ + ‘Hunks!’ says he,” + +continued Hal; “that shows his disinterestedness. Oh, werry sagacious +haminals is pigs!” + +“For shame, Hal,” cried Elizabeth, “to confuse the children with such +nonsense.” + +“Why, don’t you think I know how the rent is paid? I’ve seen Papa on +rent-day hundreds of times.” + +“But the pigs, Hal; did you ever see the pigs?” + +“Thousands of times.” + +“Bringing bags of gold? O Hal! Hal!” + +“I want to know,” continued David, who had been digesting the startling +fact, “how the pig swings the bag on his back? I don’t think ours could +do it.” + +“It’s a sort made on purpose,” said Hal. + +“Made on purpose by Mr. Henry Merrifield,” said Susan, at last able to +speak. “Don’t believe one word, David dear; Hal is laughing at you.” + +“But how does a pig do it?” asked David, returning to the charge. + +“Why do you want to know, my dear?” asked Miss Fosbrook. + +“Mary’s sister said so.” + +“I know,” exclaimed Susan; “Davy went out with the nursery children +to-day, and they went to see Mary’s sister. Her husband is drowned +because he was a sailor; and the _Mermaid_ went to South America; and +there are five little tiny children.” + +“Of the mermaid’s?” cried Harry. + +“No, no; the _Mermaid_ was the ship, and it was wrecked, and they have +noticing to live upon; and she takes in washing, and is such a nice +woman. Mamma said we might take them our old winter frocks, and so David +went there.” + +“And she said if she had a pig to pay the rent she should be quite +happy,” said David. “How could he?” + +“I suppose,” said Miss Fosbrook, “the pig would live on her garden-stuff, +her cabbage-leaves and potato-skins; and that when he was fat she would +sell him, and pay the rent with the money. Am I right, Sam? you know I +am a Cockney.” + +“You could not be more right if you were a Hampshire beg,” said Sam. +“Jack Higgins was her husband’s name, and a famous fellow he was; he once +rigged a little boat for me.” + +“And he sailed with Papa once, long ago,” added Susan; to which Sam +rejoined, + +“More fool he to go into the merchant service and get drowned, with +nothing for his widow to live upon.” + +“I say,” cried Hal, “why shouldn’t we give her a pig?” + +“Oh, do!” earnestly exclaimed David. + +“I’ll catch one,” broke from John and Annie at once; “such lots as there +are in the yard!” + +“You would catch it, I believe,” said Sam disdainfully; while Susan +explained, + +“No; those are Papa’s pigs. Purday would not let you give them away.” + +“Of course,” said Henry, “that was only those little geese. I meant to +make a subscription among ourselves, and give her the pig; and won’t she +be surprised!” + +“Oh! yes, yes,” shouted the children; “let’s do it all ourselves!” + +“I’ve got one-and-threepence, and sixpence next Saturday,” cried Hal. + +“And I’ve eightpence,” quoth Annie. + +“And I’ve a whole shilling,” said David. + +“I’ve fourpence,” said Johnnie. + +“I’ve not much, I’m afraid,” said Susan, feeling in her pocket, with +rather black looks. + +“Oh!” said Sam, “everybody knows simple Sukey never has a farthing in her +pocket by any chance!” + +“Yes, but I have, Sam;” and with an air of great triumph, Susan held up +three-halfpence, whereat all the party screamed with laughter. + +“Well, but Bessie always has lots! She’s as rich as a little Jew. Come, +Bet, Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy, and Bess, what will you give?—what have +you got?”—and one hand came on her shoulder, and another on her arm but +she shook herself free, and answered rather crossly, + +“Don’t—I can’t—I’ve got something else to do with my money.” + +“Oh! you little stingy avaricious crab!” was the outcry beginning; but +Miss Fosbrook stopped it before Elizabeth had time to make the angry +answer that was rising on her lips. + +“No, my dears, you must not tease her. Each of you has a full right to +use your own money as you may think best; and it is not right to force +gifts in this manner.” + +“She’s a little affected pussy-cat,” said Hal, much annoyed; “I know what +she wants it for—to buy herself a ridiculous parasol like Ida Greville, +when she would see poor Hannah Higgins starving at her feet.” + +Elizabeth bit her lip, and tossed up her head; the tears were in her +eyes, but she made no answer. + +“Come, never mind,” said Sam; “she’s as obstinate as a male when she gets +a thing into her head. Let’s see what we’ve got without her. I’ve only +sevenpence: worse luck that I bought ball of string yesterday.” + +The addition amounted to three shillings and elevenpence halfpenny: a sum +which looked so mighty when spread out, chiefly in coppers, on the +window-seat, that Annie and David looked on it as capable of buying any +amount of swine; but Sam looked rather blank at it, and gazing up and +down, said, “But what does a pig cost?” + +“Miss Fosbrook, what does a pig cost?” + +Miss Fosbrook shook her head and laughed, saying that she knew much less +of pigs than they did; and Susan exclaiming, “There’s Purday in the +court,” they all tumbled to the window, one upon the top of the other. + +The window was a large heavily-framed sash, with a deep window-seat, and +a narrow ledge within the sill—as if made on purpose, the first for the +knees the second for the elbows of the gazers therefrom. + +As to the view, it was into a walled kitchen court, some high chestnut +and lime trees just looking over the grey roofs of the offices. On the +ground lay a big black Newfoundland dog, and a couple of graceful +greyhounds, one of them gnawing a bone, cunningly watched by a +keen-looking raven, with his head on one side; while peeping out from the +bars of the bottle-rack was the demure face of the sandy cat, on the +watch for either bones or sparrows. + +A stout, stumpy, shrewd-looking labourer, in a short round frock, high +buskins, an old wide-awake, short curly hair, and a very large nose, +stood in front of the dairy door, mixing a mess of warm milk for the +young calves. + +“Purday! Master Purday!” roared nearly the whole young population above; +but he was so intent on his mixture, that he went on as if he were deaf, +till a second explosion of “Purday! Purday! I say!” made him turn up +his face in an odd half-awake kind of manner. + +“Purday, what’s the price of a pig?” and, “What does a pig cost, Purday?” + +“What d’ye all holler at once for? A body can’t hear a word,” was all +the answer they got; whereupon they all started together again, and +Purday went on with his mixture as if they had been so many hens +cackling. + +Then Sam got up his breath again and called alone, “Purday!” and Hal and +Susan by pats and pinches strangled the like outcry from Annie and John, +so as to leave the field clear for the great question, “Purday, what does +a pig cost?” + +“More than your voices up there, sir,” growled Purday, making some laugh; +but Henry cried impatiently, + +“Now, Purday, we really do want to know what is the price of pigs.” + +“They was high last market,” began Purday. + +“I don’t care if they were high or low,” said Hal; “I want to know what +money they cost.” + +“Different pigs cost different prices,” quoth the oracle, so +sententiously, that Miss Fosbrook’s shoulders shook with laughing as she +stood a little in the background of the eager heap in the window. + +“A nice little pig, such as you’d give—” + +“Hush, hush, Hal, it’s a secret,” cried Susan. + +“A pretty sort of secret—known to eight already, and bawled out all over +the yard,” said Sam. + +“But don’t tell him what it’s for; you can ask him without that.” + +“A nice little young pig,” said Sam, “such as you’d keep all the summer, +and fat in the winter.” + +“Mind, it ain’t for you, Purday,” cried Hal. + +“Never fear my being disappointed, sir,” said the free-spoken Purday, +with a twinkle of his eye, which Hal understood so well that he burst +out, + +“Ah! you think I can never do what I say I will; but you’ll see, Purday, +if we don’t give a pig to—” + +He was screamed at, and pulled into order and silence, ere the words, +“Hannah Higgins” had quite come out; and Sam repeated his question. + +“Well,” said Purday at last, “if pigs was reasonable, you might get a +nice little one to fat, at Kattern Hill fair, somewhere about ten +shillings, or maybe twelve—sometimes more, sometimes less.” + +“Ten shillings!” The community stood round and looked at one another at +the notion of such an awful sum; but Hal was the first to cast a ray of +hope on the gloom. “Kattern Hill fair ain’t till Midsummer, and perhaps +Grandmamma will send us some money before that. If anybody’s birthday +was but coming!” + +“Better save it out of our allowance,” said Sam. “How long is it to the +fair?” + +Miss Fosbrook’s pocket-book declared it to be four weeks. + +“Well, then,” said Hal, “we three big ones have sixpence a week each, +that’s six shillings, leaving out stingy Bess, and the little ones +threepence, that’s three times three is nine, and three times nine is +thirty-six, that’s three shillings, and six is nine, and very near four +is fourteen. We shall do the pig yet.” + +“Yes, Hal; but if pigs are reasonable, I am afraid three times nine never +yet were so much so as to make thirty-six,” objected Miss Fosbrook. + +Sam whistled. + +“Twenty-seven—that’s three and twopence—it’s all the same,” said Hal; +then at the scream of the rest, “at least two and threepence. Well, any +way there’s plenty for piggy-wiggy, and it shall be a jolly secret to +delight Hannah Higgins, and surprise Papa and Mamma: hurrah!” + +“Yes,” said Sam; “but then nobody must have any fines.” + +“Ay, and Sue must keep her money. That will be a wonder!” shouted Harry. + +“Well, I’ll try,” said Susan. “I’ll try not to have a single fine, and +I’ll not buy a single lump of sugar-candy, for I do want poor Hannah to +have her pig.” + +“And so will we!” cried the younger ones with one voice. + +“Only,” added Susan, “I must buy Dicky’s canary seed.” + +“And I must have a queen’s head to write to Mamma,” said Annie. + +“Oh! never mind that, such trumpery as your letters are,” said Hal. +“Mamma could say them by heart before she gets them. What does she care +for them?” + +Little Annie looked very deplorable. + +“Never mind, my dear,” said Miss Fosbrook, “mammas always care for little +girls’ letters, and you are quite right to keep a penny for your stamp +for her.—You see, Hal, this scheme will never come to good if you +sacrifice other duties to it.” + +Henry twirled round impatiently. + +“Now suppose,” said Miss Fosbrook, “that we set up a treasury, and put +all in that we can properly afford, and then break it open on the day +before the fair, and see how much we have.” + +“Oh! yes, yes,” cried the children in raptures. + +“Will you help, Miss Fosbrook?” said Susan, clasping her hands. + +“I should like to do a very little, if you will take this silver +threepenny; but I do not think it would be right for me to spare one +penny more, for all I can afford is very much wanted at home.” + +“What shall we have for treasury?” said Hal, looking round. + +“I know!” cried Susan. “Here, in the baby-house; here’s the Toby, let’s +put it inside him.” + +The so-called baby-house was an old-fashioned cupboard with glass doors, +where certain tender dolls, and other curiosities, playthings too frail +to be played with and the like, were ranged in good order, and never +taken out except when some one child was unwell, and had to stay in-doors +alone. + +Toby Fillpot was a present from Nurse Freeman. It was a large mug, +representing a man with a red coat, black hat, and white waistcoat, very +short legs, and top-boots. The opening of the cup was at the top of his +head, and into this was dropped all the silver and pence at present +mustered, and computed to be about four shillings. + +“And, Miss Fosbrook, you’ll not be cross about fines?” said Johnnie, +looking coaxing. + +“I hope I shall not be cross,” she answered; “but I do not engage to let +you off any. I think having so good a use to put your money to should +make you more careful against forfeiting it.” + +“Yes,” said Johnnie disconsolately. + +“Well, I never get fined,” cried Hal joyfully. + +“Except for running up stairs in dirty shoes,” said Sam. + +“Oh! there’s no dirt now.” + +“Let me see, what are the fines?” said Miss Fosbrook. + +“Here’s the list,” said Susan; and sighing, she said, “I’m afraid I shall +never do it! If Bessie only would help!” + +The fines of the Stokesley schoolroom were these for delinquencies—each +value a farthing— + + For being dressed later than eight o’clock. + + For hair not properly brushed. + + For coming to lessons later than five minutes after ten. + + For dirty hands. + + For being turned back twice with any lesson. + + For elbows on the table. + + For foolish crying. + + For unnecessary words in lesson-time. + + For running up stairs in wet shoes. + + For leaving things about. + +Each of these bits of misbehaviour caused the forfeit of a farthing out +of the weekly allowance. Susan looked very gloomy over them; but Hal +exclaimed, “Never mind, Susie; we’ll do it all without you, never fear!” + +“And now,” said Sam, “I vote we have some fun in the garden.” + +Some readers may be disposed to doubt, after this specimen, whether the +young Merrifields could be really young ladies and gentlemen; but indeed +their birth might make them so; for there had been Squire Merrifields at +Stokesley as long as Stokesley had been a parish, and those qualities of +honour and good breeding that mark the gentleman had not been wanting to +the elder members of the family. The father of these children was a +captain in the navy, and till within the last six years the children had +lived near Plymouth; but when he inherited the estate they came thither, +and David and the two little ones had been born at Stokesley. The +property was not large; and as Captain Merrifield was far from rich, it +took much management to give all this tribe of boys and girls a good +education, as well as plenty of bread and butter, mutton, and +apple-pudding. There was very little money left to be spent upon +ornament, or upon pleasuring; so they were brought up to the most homely +dress suited to their station, and were left entirely to the country +enjoyments that spring up of themselves. Company was seldom seen, for +Papa and Mamma had little time or means for visiting; and a few morning +calls and a little dining out was all they did; which tended to make the +young ones more shy and homely, more free and rude, more inclined to love +their own ways and despise those of other people, than if they had seen +more of the world. They were a happy, healthy set of children, not +faulty in essentials, but, it must be confessed, a little wild, rough and +uncivil, in spite of the code of fines. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +MRS. MERRIFIELD had taught her children herself, till Samuel and Henry +began going to the Curate for a couple of hours every day, to be prepared +for school. Lessons were always rather a scramble; so many people coming +to speak to her, and so many interruptions from the nursery; and then +came a time when Mamma always was tired, and Papa used to come out and +scold if the noises grew very loud indeed, and was vexed if the children +gave Mamma any trouble of any kind. Next they were told they were to +have a governess—a sort of piece of finery which the little savages had +always despised—and thereupon came Miss Fosbrook; but before she had been +a week in the house Mamma was quite ill and in her bed-room, and Papa +looked graver than he had ever done before; and Mr. Braddon, the doctor, +came very often: and at last Susan was called into Mamma’s room, and it +was explained to her that Mamma was thought so ill, that she must go to +be under a London doctor, and would be away, she could not tell how long; +so that meantime the children must all be left to Miss Fosbrook, with +many many injunctions to be good and obedient, for hearing that they were +going on well would be poor Mamma’s only comfort. + +It was three days since Captain and Mrs. Merrifield had gone; and Miss +Fosbrook stood at the window, gazing at the bright young green of the +horse-chestnut trees, and thinking many various thoughts in the lull that +the children had left when they rushed out of doors. + +She thought herself quite alone, and stood, sometimes smiling over the +odd ways of her charges, and at what they put her in mind of, sometimes +gravely thinking whether she had said or done the wisest things for them, +or what their mother would have most approved. She was just going to +move away from the window, when she saw a little figure curled up on the +floor, with her head on the window-seat. “Bessie, my dear, what are you +doing here? Why are not you gone out?” + +“I don’t want to go out.” + +“I thought they were to have a great game at whoop-hide.” + +“I don’t like whoop-hide. Johnnie pulls the clothes off my back.” + +“My dear, I hope you are not staying in because they called you those +foolish names. It was all in good humour.” + +“It was not kind,” said Elizabeth, her throat swelling. “It was not +true.” + +“Perhaps not; but you did not speak to give your reasons; and who could +tell how good they might be?” + +“I’ve a right to my secrets as well as they have,” said the little +maiden. + +Miss Fosbrook looked kindly at her, and she turned wistful eyes on the +young governess. + +“Miss Fosbrook, will you keep a secret?” + +“That I will.” + +“I want my money to buy some card-board—and some ribbon—and some real +true paints. I’ve got some vermilion, but I want some real good blue. +And then I want to make some beautiful bands with ties—like what Papa has +for his letters—for all Mamma’s letters in her desk. There’s a bundle of +Papa’s when he was gone out to the Crimean War, and that’s to have a +frigate on it, because of the _Calliope_—his ship, you know; and there’s +one bundle of dear Aunt Sarah’s—that’s to have a rose, because I always +think her memory is like the rose in my hymn, you know; and Grandmamma, +she’s to have—I think perhaps I could copy a bit of the tower of +Westminster Abbey out of the print, because one sees it out of her +window; and, oh! I thought of so many more, but you see I can’t do it +without a real good paint-box, and that costs three and sixpence. Now, +Miss Fosbrook, is it stingy to wish to do that?” + +“Not at all, my dear; but you could not expect the others to understand +what they never were told.” + +“I’d have said something if they had not called me stingy,” said Bessie. + +“It certainly was rude and hasty; but if we bear such things +good-naturedly, they become better; and they were very eager about their +own plan.” + +“Such a disagreeable thing as a pig!” continued Bessie. “If it had been +anything nice, I should not have minded so much.” + +“Yes; but, my dear, you must remember that the pig will be a more useful +present than even your pretty contrivances. You cannot call them doing +good, as the other will be.” + +“Then you are like them! You think I ought to spend all my money on a +great horrid pig, when Mamma—” and the tears were in the little girl’s +eyes. + +“No, indeed, my dear. I don’t think anyone is called on to give their +all, and it is very nice and quite right for a little girl to try to make +a pretty present to please her mamma. There is plenty of time before +you, and I think you will manage to have some share in the very kind +action your brothers and sisters are contriving.” + +Elizabeth had not forgiven, as she should have done, the being called +stingy; it rankled on her feelings far more than those who said the word +understood; and she presently went on, “If they knew ever so much, they +would only laugh at me, and call it all Bessie’s nonsense. Miss +Fosbrook, please, what is affectation?” + +“I believe it is pretending to seem what we are not by nature,” said Miss +Fosbrook; “putting on manners or feelings that do not come to us of +themselves.” + +“Then I shall tell them they make me affected,” exclaimed she. “If I +like to be quiet and do things prettily, they teaze me for being +affected, and I’m forced to be as plain and blunt as their are, and I +don’t like it! I wish I was grown up. I wish I was Ida Greville!” + +“And why, my dear?” + +“Because then things might be pretty,” said Elizabeth. “Everything is so +plain and ugly, and one gets so tired of it! Is it silly to like things +to be pretty?” + +“No, far from it; that is, if we do not sacrifice better things to +prettiness.” + +Elizabeth looked up with a light in her dark eyes, and said, “Miss +Fosbrook, I like you!” + +Miss Fosbrook was very much pleased, and kissed her. + +She paused a moment, and then said, “Miss Fosbrook, may I ask one +question? What is your name? Mamma said it must be Charlotte, because +you signed your letter Ch. A. Fosbrook, but your little sister’s letter +that you showed us began ‘My dear Bell.’ If it is a secret, indeed I +will keep it.” + +“It is no secret at all,” said Miss Fosbrook, laughing. “My name is +Christabel Angela.” + +Elizabeth opened her eyes, and said it by syllables. “Christabel Angela! +that’s a prettier name than Ida. Does it make you very glad to have it?” + +“I like it for some reasons,” said Miss Fosbrook, smiling. + +“Oh, tell me!” cried Bessie. “Mamma always says we should not be a bit +happier if our names were pretty ones; but I don’t know, I feel as if one +would; only the others like to make things plainer and uglier than they +are.” + +“I never could call your name ugly; it is such a dignified, old, +respectable name.” + +“Yes; but they call me Betty!” + +“And they call me Bell, and sometimes Jelly-bag and Currant-jelly,” said +Miss Fosbrook, laughing and sighing, for she would have liked to have +heard those funny names again. + +“Then it is no good to you!” exclaimed Elizabeth. + +“I don’t know that we talk of good in such a matter. I like my name +because of the reason it was given to me.” + +“Oh, why?” eagerly asked the little girl. + +“When I was born, my papa was a very young man, and he was very fond of +reading poetry.” + +“Why, I thought your papa was a doctor.” + +“Well!” + +“I thought only ladies, and poets, and idle silly people, cared for +poetry.” + +“They can hardly be silly if they care rightly for real poetry, Bessie,” +said Miss Fosbrook; “at least, so my papa would say. It has been one of +his great helps. Well, in those days he was very fond of a poem about a +lady called Christabel, who was so good and sweet, that when evil came +near, it could not touch her so as to do her any harm; and so he gave his +little daughter her name.” + +“How very nice!” cried Elizabeth. + +“You must not envy me, my dear, for I have been a good deal laughed at +for my pretty name, and so has Papa; and I do not think he would have +chosen anything so fanciful if he had been a little older.” + +“Then isn’t he—what is it you call it—poetical now?” + +“Indeed he is, in a good way;” and as the earnest eyes looked so warmly +at her, Christabel Fosbrook could not help making a friend of the little +maiden. “He has very little time to read it; for you know he is a parish +surgeon in a great parish in London, full of poor people, worse off than +you can imagine, and often very ill. He is obliged to be always hard at +work in the narrow close streets there, and to see everything sad, and +dismal, and disagreeable, that can be found; but, do you know, Bessie, he +always looks for the good and beautiful side; he looks at one person’s +patience, and another person’s kindness, and at some little child’s love +for its mother or sister, that hinders it from being too painful for +him.” + +“But is that poetry? I thought poetry meant verses.” + +“Verses are generally the best and most suitable way of expressing our +feelings about what is good and beautiful; but they are not always +poetry, any more than the verses they sang to-night about the bread and +butter, because, you know, wanting thick butter was not exactly a +beautiful feeling. I think the denying themselves their little +indulgences for the sake of giving the poor woman a pig, is much more +poetical, though nobody said a word in verse.” + +They both laughed; and Elizabeth said, “That wasn’t what you meant about +your papa. Susy cares for goodness.” + +“No, it was not all I meant; but it was seeing high and noble thoughts +expressed in beautiful verses that gives him pleasure; and when he has a +little bit of leisure, it is his great treat to open a book of that sort, +and read a little bit to us, and tell us why we like it. He says it +makes him young again, and takes him out of the dingy streets, and from +all his cares as to how the bills are to be paid.” + +“Did you like coming here?” was Bessie’s home question; and Miss Fosbrook +winked away a little moisture, as she said, + +“I was glad to be growing a woman, and to be able to help about some of +those bills; and then I was glad to come into the beautiful country that +Papa has so often told us about.” + +“I did not know there was anything beautiful here.” + +“O Bessie, you never lived in London! You can’t think how many things +are beautiful to me here! I want to be writing about them to Papa and +Kate all day long.” + +“Are they?” said Bessie. “Mamma has pretty things in the drawing-room, +but she keeps them out of the way; and everything here is so dull and +stupid!” and the little girl gave a yawn. + +Miss Fosbrook understood her. The wainscoted room in which they were +sitting had been painted of a uniform creamy brown; the chairs were worn; +the table was blistered and cracked; the carpet only covered the middle +of the room, and was so threadbare, that only a little red showed here +and there. All that was needful was there, but of the plainest kind; and +where the other children only felt ease and freedom, and were the more +contented and happy for the homely good sense of all around them, this +little girl felt a want that she scarcely understood, but which made her +uncomfortable and discontented, even when she had so much to be thankful +for. + +Miss Fosbrook moved nearer to the window. Down below there was certainly +not much to be seen; only Pierce cleaning the knives in the knife-house, +and Martha washing out her pans before the dairy-door; but that was not +where she looked. She turned the little half-fretful face upwards. +“Look there!” she said; “and talk of seeing nothing pretty!” + +“I see nothing—” + +“Do you not see the pale clear green of those noble horse-chestnut leaves +just sprung into their full summer dress—not in the least worn nor +stained yet? And those fine spikes of white blossom, all tending +up—up—while the masses of those leaves fall so gracefully down, as if +lifting them up, and then falling back to do them honour.” Bessie +smiled, and her eye lighted up. “And see the colour against the sky—look +at the contrast of that bright light green with the blue, so very deep, +of the sky—and oh! see that train of little clouds, red with soft sunny +light, like a little soft flock of rosy lambs, if there were such things, +lying across the sky. O Bessie! you can’t talk of wanting the sight of +pretty things while you have that sky.” + +Bessie was coming closer to her, when in burst Sam and Johnnie. + +“Hello, Bess! moping here, I declare! I suppose you and Miss Fosbrook +are telling each other all your secrets.” + +“I was just coming out,” said Miss Fosbrook. “I want to make out +something about those noble flowers of the horse-chestnut, and why they +don’t look whiter. Could you gather one for me, Sam?” + +Sam was only too glad of an excuse for climbing a tree, however cheaply +he might hold one who cared for flowers; and by the time Bessie had put +on her lilac-spotted sun-bonnet—a shapeless article it must be confessed, +with a huge curtain serving for a tippet, very comfortable, and no +trouble at all—he had scrambled into the fork, and brought down a +beautiful spire of blossoms, with all the grand leaves hanging round in +their magnificent fans. + +“What will you do with it?” said the children, standing round. + +“Do you think you could ask Mary to spare us a jug, Susan? If I might +put it in water in the schoolroom fireplace, it would look fresh and +cheerful for Sunday.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Susan, pleased with the commission, “that I will;” and +away she ran, while Miss Fosbrook examined the spike to her own great +enjoyment. “I see,” she said, “the flowers are not really white, they +each have a patch of pink or yellow on them, which gives them their +softness. Yes; and do you see, Bessie, they are in clusters of three, +and each three has one flower with a pink spot, and two with a yellow +one.” + +“That is very curious,” said Bessie: the fretfulness was very much gone +out of her tone, and she stood looking at the beautiful flower, without a +word, till Susan came back, when she began to show her what Miss Fosbrook +had pointed out. Susan smiled with her really good nature, and said, +“How funny!” but was more intent on telling Miss Fosbrook that she had +brought the jug, and then on hauling Elizabeth away to a game at Tom +Tittler’s ground. + +Miss Fosbrook said she would put away the flower and come back again; and +she settled the branch in the chimney, where it looked very graceful, and +really did enliven the room, and then walked out towards the lawn. + +There was a lawn in front of the house, part of which had been formerly +levelled for a bowling-green, and was kept clear of shrubs or +flower-beds. Beyond was a smooth, rather rapid slope towards a quiet +river, beyond which there rose again a beautiful green field, crowned +above by a thick wood, ending at the top in some scraggy pine-trees, with +scanty dark foliage at the top of their rude russet arms. Fine trees +stood out here and there upon the slope of the field; and Captain +Merrifield’s fine sleeked cows were licking each other, or chewing the +cud, under them. + +There was a white Chinese bridge, the rails all zigzags, and patterns +running this way and that, so that it must have been very ugly and +glaring before the white paint had faded so much. + +The house was a respectable old stone building, rather brown and grey, +and the stone somewhat disposed to peel off in flakes; the windows large +sashes, set in great projecting squared stones, the tallest and biggest +at the top. It was a house of a very sober pleasant countenance, that +looked as if it had always been used to have a large family in it; and +there was a vine, with all its beauteous leaves, trained all across the +garden front, making a pleasant green summer-blind over the higher half +of the drawing-room windows, that now stood open, telling of the +emptiness within. + +Christabel stood for a few moments looking round, and thinking what a +paradise of green rest this would be to her hard-worked father and +anxious mother; and how she should like to see her little brothers and +sisters have one free run and roll on that delicious greensward, instead +of now and then walking to one of the parks as a great holiday. Yet hers +was a very happy home, and, except her being absent from it, nothing had +befallen her to sadden her merry young spirits; so when she heard the +joyous cry behind her— + + “I’m on Tommy Tittler’s ground, + Picking up gold and silver,” + +she turned about, and laughed as she saw the gold-finders stooping and +clawing at the grass, with eyes cast round about them for Hal, who was +pursuing Susan in and out, up and down till, with screams of exultation, +she was safely across the ridge of the bowling-green, that served as +“home.” + +When Hal turned back, Miss Fosbrook was as heedfully and warily picking +up gold and silver as any of the rest of them. He was resolved on +capturing her; but first David was such a tempting prize, with his back +so very near, and so unconscious, that he must be made prisoner. A catch +at the brown-holland blouse—a cry—a shout of laughter, and Davy is led up +behind the standard maiden-blush rose, always serving as the prison. And +now the tug of war rages round it, he darts here and there within his +bounds, holding out his hand to any kind deliverer whose touch may set +him free; and all the others run backwards and forwards, trying to +circumvent the watchful jailor, Tom Tittler, who, in front of the +rose-bush, flies instantly at whoever is only coming near his captive. + +Ha! Susan had nearly—all but done it, while Hal was chasing away Annie. +No, not she; Hal is back again, and with a shriek away she scours. Sam! +oh, he is very near; if that stupid little Davy would only look round, he +would be free in another moment; but he only gapes at the pursuit of +Susan, and Sam will touch him without his being aware! No—here’s Hal +back again. Sam’s off. What a scamper! Now’s the time—here’s Miss +Fosbrook, lighter-footed than any of the children, softly stealing on +tip-toe, while Hal is scaring Johnnie. Her fingers just touch Davy’s. +“Freed! Freed!” is the cry; and off goes he, pounding for home! but Hal +rushes across the path, he intercepts Miss Fosbrook, and, with a shout of +triumph—There is the sound of a rent. Everybody stands a little aghast. + +“It is only the gathers,” says Miss Fosbrook good-humouredly. “I’ll tuck +them up and sew them in by and by; but really, Hal, you need not pull so +furiously; I would have yielded to something short of that.” + +“Gowns are such stuff!” said Hal, really meaning it for an apology, +though it did not sound like one, for her good-natured face abashed him a +little. + +“Touch and take used to be our rule,” said Miss Fosbrook. + +Bessie eagerly said that would be the best way, the boys were so rude; +but all the rest with one voice cried out that it would be very stupid; +and Miss Fosbrook did not press it, but only begged in a droll way that +some one would take pity on her; and come to release her; and so alert +was she in skipping towards her allies from behind the rose-bush, that +Bessie presently succeeded in giving the rescuing touch, and she flew +back quick as a bird to the safe territory, dragging Bessie with her, who +otherwise would have assuredly been caught; and who, warm with the spirit +of the game, felt as if she should have been quite glad to be made +prisoner for her dear Christabel’s sake. + +An hour after, and all the children were in bed. Susan and Annie +agreeing that a governess was no such great bother after all; and +Elizabeth lying awake to whisper over to herself, “Christabel Angela, +Christabel Angela! That’s my secret!” in a sort of dream of pleasure +that will make most people decide on her being a very silly little girl. + +And Christabel Angela herself sat mending her gathers, and thinking over +her first week of far greater difficulties than she had contemplated when +she had left home with the understanding that she was to be entirely +under Mrs. Merrifield’s direction. Poor Mrs. Merrifield had said much of +regret at leaving her to such a crew of little savages, and she had only +tried to set the mother’s mind at rest by being cheerful; and though she +felt that it was a great undertaking to manage those great boys out of +lesson-hours, she knew that when a thing cannot be helped, strength and +aid is given to those who seek for it sincerely. + +And on the whole, she felt thankful to the children for having behaved +even as well as they had done. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +“GRANT to us, Thy humble servants, that by Thy holy inspiration we may +think those things that be good, and by Thy merciful guiding may perform +the same,” spelt out David with some trouble and difficulty, as he stood +by Miss Fosbrook on Sunday morning. + +“Miss Fosbrook?” + +“Well, my dear.” + +“Miss Fosbrook?” + +Another “Well.” + +“Is wanting to buy a pig one of the ‘things that be good’?’ + +“Anything kind and right is good, my dear,” said Miss Fosbrook, a little +vexed at a sort of snorting she heard from the other end of the room. + +“Davy thinks the pig is in his Collect,” said Sam. + +He was one of those who were especially proud of being downright, and in +him it often amounted to utter regardlessness of people’s feelings, yet +not out of ill-nature; and when Susan responded, “Don’t teaze Davy—he +can’t bear it,” he was silent; but the mischief was done; and when Miss +Fosbrook went on saying that the wish to help the poor woman was +assuredly a good thought, which the little boy might well ask to be aided +in fulfilling, David had grown ashamed, and would not listen. But the +mention of the pig had set off Master Henry, who was sitting up in the +window-seat with Annie, also learning the Collect, and he burst out into +descriptions of the weight of money that would be found in Toby, and how +he meant to go to the fair with Purday, and help him to choose the pig, +and drive it home. + +“More likely to hinder,” muttered Sam. + +“Besides, Papa wouldn’t let you,” added Bessie; but Hal did not choose to +hear, and went on as to how the pig should ran away with Purday, and jump +into a stall full of parliament gingerbread (whereat Annie fell into +convulsions of laughing), and Hal should be the first to stop it, and +jump on its back, and ride out of the fair holding it by the ears; and +then they should pop it into the sty unknown to Hannah Higgins, and all +lie in wait to hear what would happen; and when it squealed, she would +think it the baby crying; but there Susan burst out at the notion of any +one thinking a child could scream like a pig, taking it as an affront to +all babyhood; and Miss Fosbrook took the opportunity of saying, + +“Hadn’t you better hatch your chickens before you count them, Henry? If +you prevent everyone from learning the Collect, I fear there will be the +less hope of Mr. Piggy.” + +“Oh! we don’t have fines on Sundays,” said Henry. + +“Mamma says that on Sundays naughtiness is not such a trifle that we can +be fined for it,” said Susan. + +“It is not naughtiness we are ever fined for,” added Elizabeth: “_that_ +we are punished and talked to for: but the fines are only for bad +habits.” + +“Oh! I hope I sha’n’t have any this week,” sighed Susan. + +“You may hope,” said Sam. “You’re sure of them for everything possible +except crying.” + +“Yes, Bessie gets all the crying fines,” said Hal; “and I hope she’ll +have lots, because she won’t help the pig.” + +Bessie started up from her place and rushed out of the room; while Miss +Fosbrook indignantly exclaimed, + +“Really, boys, I can’t think how you can be so ill-natured!” + +They looked up as though it were quite a new light to them; and Susan +exclaimed, + +“Oh, Miss Fosbrook! they don’t mean it: Sam and Hal never were +ill-natured in their lives.” + +“I don’t know what you call ill-natured,” said Miss Fosbrook, “unless it +is saying the very things most likely to vex another.” + +“I don’t mean to vex anybody,” said Henry, “only we always go on so, and +nobody is such a baby as to mind, except Bessie.” + +And Sam muttered, “One can’t be always picking one’s words.” + +“I am not going to argue about it,” said Miss Fosbrook; “and it is time +to get ready for church. Only I thought manliness was shown in kindness +to the weak, and avoiding what can pain them.” + +She went away; and Susan was the first to exclaim, + +“I didn’t think she’d have been so cross!” + +“Stuff, Sue!” said Sam; “it’s not being cross. I like her for having a +spirit; but one can’t be finikin and mealy-mouthed to suit her London +manners. I like the truth.” + +It would have been well if any one had been by to tell Mr. Samuel that +truth of character does not consist in disagreeable and uncalled-for +personalities. + +Miss Fosbrook did not wonder at little Elizabeth for her discomfort under +the rude homeliness of Stokesley, where the children made a bad copy of +their father’s sailor bluntness, and the difficulties of money matters +kept down all indulgences. She knew that Captain Merrifield was as poor +a man for an esquire as her father was for a surgeon, and that if he were +to give his sons an education fit for their station, he must make his +household live plainly in every way; but without thinking them right +feelings, she had some pity for little Bessie’s weariness and discontent +in never seeing anything pretty. The three girls came in dressed for +church, in the plainest brown hats, black capes, and drab alpaca frocks, +rather long and not very full; not a coloured bow nor handkerchief, not a +flounce nor fringe, to relieve them; even their books plain brown. +Bessie looked wistfully at Miss Fosbrook’s pretty Church-service, and +said she and Susan both had beautiful Prayer-Books, but Mamma said they +could not be trusted with them yet—Ida Greville had such a beauty. + +Was it the effect of Miss Fosbrook’s words, that Sam forbore to teaze +Bessie about Ida Greville?—whose name was a very dangerous subject in the +schoolroom. Also, he let Bessie take hold of Miss Fosbrook’s hand in +peace, though in general the least token of affection was scouted by the +whole party. + +It was a pretty walk to church, over a paddock, where the cows were +turned out, and then along a green lane; and the boys had been trained +enough in Sunday habits to make them steady and quiet on the way, +especially as Henry was romancing about the pig. + +By and by Elizabeth gave Miss Fosbrook’s hand a sudden pull; and she +perceived, in the village street into which they were emerging, a party +on the way to church. There were two ladies, one in stately handsome +slight mourning, the other more quietly dressed, and two or three boys; +but what Elizabeth wanted her to look at was a little girl of nine years +old, who was walking beside the lady. Her hat was black chip, edged and +tied with rose-coloured ribbon, and adorned with a real bird, with glass +eyes, black plumage, except the red crest and wings. She wore a +neatly-fitting little fringed black polka, beneath which spread out in +fan-like folds her flounced pink muslin, coming a little below her knees, +and showing her worked drawers, which soon gave place to her neat +stockings and dainty little boots. She held a small white parasol, +bordered with pink, and deeply fringed, over her head, and held a +gold-clasped Prayer-Book in her hand; and Miss Fosbrook heard a little +sigh, which told her that this was the being whom Elizabeth Merrifield +thought the happiest in the world. She hoped it was not all for the fine +clothes; and Sam muttered, + +“What a little figure of fun!” + +Martin and Osmond Greville went daily to Mr. Carey’s, like Sam and Hal, +so the boys ran on to them; and Mrs. Greville, turning round, showed a +very pleasant face as she bowed to Miss Fosbrook, and shaking hands with +Susan and Elizabeth, asked with much solicitude after their mamma, and +how lately they had heard of her. + +Susan was too simple and straightforward to be shy, and answered readily, +that they had had letters, and Mamma had been sadly tired by the journey, +but was better the next day. The little girls shook hands; and Mrs. +Greville made a kind of introduction by nodding towards her companion, +and murmuring something about “Fräulein Munsterthal;” and Miss Fosbrook +found herself walking beside a lady with the least of all bonnets, a +profusion of fair hair, and a good-humoured, one-coloured face, no doubt +Miss Ida’s German governess. She said something about the fine day, and +received an answer, but what it was she could not guess, whether German, +French, or English, and her own knowledge of the two first languages was +better for reading than for speaking; so after an awkward attempt or two, +she held her peace and looked at her companions. + +Susan and Mrs. Greville seemed to be getting on very well together; but +Elizabeth’s admiration of Ida seemed to be speechless, for they were +walking side by side without a word, perhaps too close to their elders to +talk. + +Annie and David were going on steadily hand in hand a little way off; and +Miss Fosbrook chiefly heard the talk of the boys, who had fallen behind; +perhaps her ears were quickened by its personality, for though Sam was +saying, “I’ll tell you what, she’s a famous fellow!” the rejoinder was, +“What! do you mean to say that you mind her?” + +“Doesn’t he?” said Hal’s voice; “why, she sent him away from tea last +night, just for shying crusts.” + +“And did he go?” and there was a disagreeable sounding laugh, in which +she was sorry that Hal joined. + +“Catch the Fräulein serving me so!” + +“She never tries!” + +“She knows better!” + +“I say, Sam, I thought you had more spirit. You’ll be sitting up +pricking holes in a frill by the time the Captain comes back.” + +“And Hal will be mincing along with his toes turned out like a +dancing-master!” continued an affected voice. + +“No such thing!” cried Hal angrily: “I’m not a fellow to be ordered +about!” + +The Grevilles laughed; and one of them said, “Well, then, why don’t you +show it? I’d soon send her to the right-about if she tried to interfere +with me!” + +Miss Fosbrook could bear it no longer; and facing suddenly round, looked +the speaker full in the face, and said, “I am very much obliged to +you—but you should not speak quite so loud.” + +The boys shrank back out of countenance; and Sam, who alone had not +spoken, looked up into her face with a merry air, as if he were gratified +by her spirited way of discomfiting them. + +Osmond tried to recover, and muttered, “What a sell!” rather impudently; +but they were now near the churchyard, and Mrs. Greville turning round, +all was hushed. + +Christabel felt much vexed that all this should have happened just before +going into church; she felt a good deal ruffled herself, and feared that +Bessie’s head was filled with nonsense, if Hal’s were not with something +worse. + +The church looked pretty outside, with the old weather-boarded wooden +belfry rising above the tiled roof and western gable; and it was neatly +kept but not pretty within, the walls all done over with pale buff wash, +and the wood-work very clumsy. Sam and Susan behaved well and +attentively; but Bessie fidgeted into her mamma’s place, and would stand +upon a hassock. Miss Fosbrook was much afraid it was to keep in sight of +the beautiful bird. Hal yawned; and Johnnie not only fidgeted unbearably +himself, but made his sister Annie do the same, till Miss Fosbrook +scarcely felt as if she was at church, and made up her mind to tell +Johnnie that she should leave him at home with the babies unless he +changed his ways. Little David went on most steadily with his +Prayer-Book, and scarcely looked off it till the sermon, when he fell +asleep. + +Miss Fosbrook had one pleasure as she was going home. The children had +all gone on some steps before her, chattering eagerly among themselves, +when Sam turned back and said abruptly, “Miss Fosbrook, you didn’t mind +_that_, I hope?” + +“What those boys were saying? It depends on you whether you make me mind +it.” + +“I don’t mean to make any rows if I can help it,” said Sam. + +“I am sure I hope you will be able to help it! I don’t know what I +should do if you did!” + +Sam gave an odd smile with his honest face. “Well, you’ve got a good +spirit of your own. It would take something to cow you.” + +“Pray don’t try!” + +Sam laughed, and said, “I did promise Papa to be conformable.” + +“And I was very much obliged to you yesterday evening. The behaviour of +the other boys depends so much on you.” + +“Yes, I know,” said Sam; “and I don’t mind it so much now I see you can +stand up for yourself.” + +“Besides, what would it be if I had to write to your father that I could +not manage such a bear-garden?” + +“I’ll take care that sha’n’t happen,” exclaimed Sam. “It would hinder +all the good to Mamma! I’ll tell you what,” he added, after a +confidential pause, “if we get beyond you, there’s Mr. Carey.” + +“I thought you did not mean to get beyond me.” + +Sam looked a little disconcerted, and it struck her that, though he would +not say so, he was doubtful whether the Greville influence might not +render Henry unmanageable; but he quickly gave it another turn. “Only +you must not plague us about London manners.” + +“I don’t know what you mean by London manners. Do you mean not bawling +at tea? for I mean to insist upon that, I assure you, and I want you to +help me.” + +“Oh! not being finikin, and mincing, and nonsensical!” + +“I hope I’m not so!” said Miss Fosbrook, laughing heartily; “but I’ll +tell you one thing, Sam, that I do wish you would leave off—and that is +teazing. I don’t know whether that is country manners, but I don’t like +to see a sensible kind fellow like you just go out of your way to say +something mortifying to a younger one.” + +“You don’t know,” said Sam. “It is fun. They like it.” + +“If they really like it, there is no objection. I know I should like +very much to have my brother here quizzing me; but you know very well +there are two sorts of such fun, and one that is only sport to the +stronger side.” + +“Bessie is so ridiculous.” + +“She is the very one I want to protect. I don’t think that teazing her +does any good; it only gives her cross feelings. And she really has more +right on her side than you think. You might be just as honest and bold +if you were less rude and bearish.” + +“I can’t bear to see her so affected and perked up.” + +“It is not affectation. She is really more gentle and quiet than you +are; you don’t think it so in your Mamma, and she is like her.” + +“Mamma is not like Bessie.” + +“And then about Davy. How could you go and stop the poor little boy when +he was trying to think and feel rightly?” + +“He was so funny,” repeated Sam. + +“I hope you will think another time whether your fun is safe and kind.” + +“One can’t be so particular,” he said impatiently. + +“I am sorry to hear it. I thought the only way to do right was to be +particular.” + +He grunted, and flung away from her. She was vexed to have sent him off +in such a mood; but, unmannerly as he was, she saw so much good in him, +that she could not but hope he would be her friend and ally. + +Dinner went off very peaceably, and then Susan fetched her two darlings +from the nursery, George and Sarah, of three years and eighteen months +old. Her great perfection was as a motherly elder sister; and even Sam +was gentle to these little things, and played with them very nicely. + +Miss Fosbrook reminded Hal of his Collect; but he observed that there was +plenty of time, and continued to stand by the window, pursuing the flies +with his finger, not killing them, but tormenting them and David very +seriously, by making them think he would—not a very pretty business for +the day when all things should be happy, more like that which is always +found “for idle hands to do.” + +Evening service-time put an end to this sport; but Miss Fosbrook could +not set off till after a severe conflict with Johnnie. She had decreed +that he should not go again that day, after his behaviour in the morning; +and perhaps he would not have minded this punishment much if David had +not been going, which made him think it a disgrace. So, in the most +independent manner be put on his hat, and was marching off, when Miss +Fosbrook stood in front of him, and ordered him back. + +He repeated, “I’m going to church.” It was plain enough that he had +heard what those boys had said about not submitting. + +“Church is not the place to go to in a fit of wilfulness, Johnnie,” she +said; and his sisters broke out, “O Johnnie!” but the naughty boy, +fancying, perhaps, that want of time would lead to his getting his own +way, marched on, sticking up his toes very high in the air. + +Hal laughed. + +“Johnnie, Johnnie dear,” entreated Susan, “what would Mamma say?” + +John would not hear, and walked on. + +“John,” said Miss Fosbrook, “if you do not come back directly, I must +carry you.” + +She had measured her strength with his: he was only eight years old, and +she believed that she could carry him; but he heard the church-bells +ringing, and thought he should have his way. + +She laid hold of him, and he began fighting and kicking, in stout shoes, +whose thumps were no joke. She held fast, but she felt frightened, and +doubtful of the issue of the struggle; and again there was Hal laughing. + +“For-shame, Henry!” burst out Sam; and the same moment those two feet +were secured, and John was a prisoner. Miss Fosbrook called out to the +rest to go on to church, and she and Sam dragged the boy up to the +nursery, and shut him in there, roaring passionately. + +Nurse Freeman, knowing nothing about it, could not believe but that the +stranger lady had made her child naughty, and said something about their +Mamma letting him go to church; and “when the child wished to go to +church, it seemed strange he should not.” + +Miss Fosbrook would not defend herself, for she was in great haste; but +Sam exclaimed, “Stuff! he was as naughty as could be all this morning, +and only wanted to go now because he was told not.” + +Johnnie bellowed out something else, but Miss Fosbrook would not let Sam +go on; she touched his arm, and drew him off with her, he exclaiming, +“Foolish old Freeman! she will pet and spoil him all church-time, till he +is worse than ever.” + +It was lucky for her that she was too much hurried to dwell on this +vexation; she almost ran to save herself from being late, and scarcely +heard Sam’s mutterings about wishing to break Martin Greville’s head. + +“You need not hurry so much,” he said; “there’s a shorter cut, only I +suppose you can’t get through a gap.” + +“Can’t I?” she laughed; and he led her on straight through the +Short-horns. Some of them looked at her more than she fancied, but she +knew she might give up all hopes of Sam if he detected her fears. Then +came the gap, where a tree had been cut down in the hedge, and such a +jump down from it! But she gathered up her muslin, and made her leap so +gallantly, that the boy cried, + +“Hurrah! well done!” and came and walked close to her, saying +confidentially, “I say, do you think we shall ever do the pig?” + +“I am sure it might be done. If you are likely to do it you must know +better than I.” + +“I don’t know that I much care about it. It will be rather a bother; +only now we have said it, I shall hate it if we don’t do it.” + +“I think the pleasure of giving it will be a delightful reward for a +little self-command.” + +“Only Hal and the girls will make such a work about it. I’m glad, after +all, that Bessie has nothing to do with it, or she would want to dress it +up in flowers and ribbons. Ha-ha! But what a little crab it is!” + +“Don’t be too sure of that. People may have other designs.” + +“Bessie’s can’t be anything but trumpery.” + +“Sometimes present trumpery is a step to something better. ‘A was an +Archer’ is not very wise, but it is the road to reading—and even if it +were not so, Sam, it is not right to shame people into giving; for what +is not bestowed for the true reasons, does no good to giver nor to +receiver.” + +Sam looked up with a frown of attention, as if he were trying to take in +the new light; but he did take it in, and smacking his hands together +with a noise like a pistol-shot, said, “Ay, that’s it! We don’t want +what is grudged.” + +Miss Fosbrook thought of words that would another time be more familiar +to Sam. “Not grudgingly, nor of necessity, for God loveth a cheerful +giver.” + +What she said was, “You see, if you plague Bessie too much, to make her +like ourselves, when she is really so different, you are driving her to +the shamming you despise so much.” + +“But ought not she to be cured of being silly?” + +“When we have quite made up our minds upon what silliness is. There, the +bell has stopped.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +THE most part of church-time Johnnie was eating Nurse Freeman’s +plum-cake. Perhaps this did not make him any easier in the conscience, +but he had a very unlucky sentiment, that as he was already naughty and +in disgrace, it was of no use to take the trouble of being good till he +could make a fresh beginning; and after what the Grevilles had said, he +did not think that would be till Papa and Mamma came home; he did not at +all mean to give in to a girl that was not even twenty. So he would not +turn to the only wise thing he could have done, the learning of his +Collect, but he teased Nurse out of more cake and more, and got what play +he could out of little George, and that was not much, for Johnnie was not +in a temper to be pleasant with a little one. + +Coming home from church, Collects were to be learnt and said before tea: +but Hal, after glancing over his own, took up his cap and said, “Come +along, Sam, Purday will be feeding the pigs; I want to choose the size of +ours.” + +“I’ve not done,” said Sam. + +“Papa never said we were to say them to Miss Fosbrook.” + +“He meant it though,” was all Sam’s answer. “Don’t hinder me.” + +“Well, I’ve no notion of being bound by what people mean,” continued Hal; +and no one could imagine the torment he made himself, neither going nor +staying, arguing the matter with his elder brother, as if Sam’s coming +would justify him, and interrupting everyone; till at last Miss Fosbrook +gathered all her spirit, and ordered him either to sit down and learn +properly at once, or to go quite away. She was very much vexed, for +Henry had been the most obliging and good-natured of all at first, and +likely to be fond of her; but such a great talker could not fail to be +weak, and his vanity had been set against her. He looked saucy at first, +and much inclined to resist; if he had seen any sympathy for him in Sam +he might have done so, but Miss Fosbrook’s steady eye was too much for +him, so he saved his dignity, as he thought, by exclaiming, “I’m sure I +don’t want to stay in this stuffy hole with such a set of owls; I shall +go to Purday.” And off he marched. + +The others stayed, and said their Collects and Catechism very +respectably, all but John, who had not learned the Collect at all, and +was sent into another room to finish it, to which he made no resistance; +he had had enough of actual fighting with Miss Fosbrook. + +Then she offered to read a story to the others, but she found that this +was distasteful even to her friend Sam; he thought it stupid to be read +to, and said he should see after Hal; David trotted after him, and Susan +and Anne repaired to the nursery to play with the little ones and the +baby. She minded it the less, as they all had some purpose; but she had +already been vexed to find that all but Davy preferred the most arrant +vacant idleness to anything rational. To be sure, Susan sometimes, +Bessie and Hal always, would read any book that made no pretensions to be +instructive, but even a fact about a lion or an elephant made them detect +wisdom in disguise, and throw it aside. She thought, however, she would +make the most of Bessie, and asked whether she would like to hear +reading, or read to herself. + +“To myself,” said Bessie; and there was a silence, while Miss Fosbrook, +glad of the quiet, began reading her _Christian Year_. Presently she +heard a voice so low that it seemed at a distance and it made her start, +for it was saying “Christabel!” then she almost laughed, for it seemed to +have been an audacious experiment, to judge by little Elizabeth’s scared +looks and the glow on her cheeks. + +“May I say it sometimes when we are alone together?” she said timidly. +“I do like it so much!” + +“If it is such a pleasure to you, I would not deprive you of it,” said +Miss Fosbrook, laughing; “but don’t do so, except when we are alone, for +your Mamma would not like me to seem younger still.” + +“Oh, thank you! Isn’t it a nice secret?” cried Bessie, clinging to her +hand: “and will you let me hug you sometimes?” + +A little love was pleasant to Miss Fosbrook, when she was feeling lonely, +and she took Bessie in her lap, and they exchanged caresses, to the +damage of the collar that Miss Fosbrook’s sister had worked for her. + +“And you don’t call me silly?” cried Bessie. + +“That depends,” was the answer, with some arch fun; but Bessie had not +much turn for fun, and presently went on— + +“And you saw Ida Greville?” + +“Yes.” + +“What did you think of her?” + +“I had not much opportunity of learning what to think.” + +“But her parasol, and her bird! Did you think her mama very silly to +give her pretty things?” + +“No, certainly not, unless she wore them at unsuitable times, or thought +too much about them.” + +“Ida has so many, she does not think of them at all. And she has shells, +and such a lovely work-box, and picture-books; she has all she wants.” + +“Are you quite sure?” + +“Oh, yes, quite sure! and they don’t tease her for liking pretty things; +her brothers keep quite away, and never bother about the schoolroom; but +she learns Italian and German, and drawing and singing. Mr. Greville +said something about our spending the day there. Oh! if we do but go! +Won’t you, Miss Fosbrook?” + +“If I am asked, and if your Mamma would wish it.” + +“Oh, Mamma always lets us go, except once—when—when—” + +“When what?” + +“When I cried,” said Elizabeth, hanging down her head; “I couldn’t help +it. It did seem so tiresome here, and she said I was learning to be +discontented; but nobody can help wishing, can they?” + +“There must be a way of not breaking the Tenth Commandment.” + +“I don’t covet; I don’t want to take things away from Ida, only to have +the same.” + +“Yes; but what does the explanation at the end of the Duty to our +Neighbour say, filling out that Commandment?” + +“I think I’ll go and see what Susie is doing,” said Elizabeth. + +Christabel sighed as the little girl walked off, displeased at having her +repinings set before her in a graver light than that in which she had +hitherto chosen to regard them. + +She saw no more of her charges till tea-time, when the bell brought them +from different quarters, Johnnie with such a grimy collar and dirty +hands, that he was a very un-Sunday-like figure, and she would have sent +him away to make himself decent, but that she was desirous of not +over-tormenting him. + +Sunday was always celebrated by having treacle with the bread, so the +butter riot was happily escaped; and Bessie was not in a gracious mood, +and the corners of her mouth provoked the boys to begin on what they knew +would make her afford them sport. Hal first: “I say, Bet, didn’t Purday +want his gun to-day at church?” + +Elizabeth put out her lip in expectation that something unpleasant was +intended, and other voices were not slow to ask an explanation. + +“Shooting the cocky-olly birds!” + +A general explosion of laughter. + +“I say (always the preface to the boy’s wit), shall I get a jay down off +the barn to stick into your hat, Betty?” + +“Don’t, Hal,” said such a deplorable offended voice, that Sam, who had +really held his tongue at first, could not help chiming in, + +“No, no; a cock-sparrow, for her London manners.” + +“No, that’s for me, Sam,” said Christabel good-humouredly. “A +London-bred sparrow; a pert forward chit.” + +She really had found a safety-valve; the boys were entertained, and +diverted from their attack on their favourite victim, by finding everyone +an appropriate bird; and when they came to “Tomtits” and “Dishwashers,” +were so astonished at Miss Fosbrook’s never having seen either, that they +instantly fell into the greatest haste to finish their tea, and conduct +her into the garden, and through a course of birds, eggs, and nests, +about which, as soon as she was assured that there was to be no +bird’s-nesting, she was very eager. + +Bessie ought to have been thankful that her persecutors were called off, +but she was in a dismal mood, and was taken with a fit of displeasure +that her own Christabel Angela was following the rabble rout into the +garden, instead of staying in the school-room at her service. + +The reason of her gloom was, that Miss Fosbrook had spoken a word that +she did not choose to take home, and yet which she could not shake off. +So she would neither stay in nor go out cheerfully, and sauntered along +looking so piteous, that Johnnie could not help making her worse by +plucking at her dress, by suddenly twisting her cape round till the back +was in front, and pushing her hat over her eyes, till “Don’t Johnnie,” in +a dismal whine, alternated with “I’ll tell Miss Fosbrook.” + +Christabel did not see nor hear. She had gone forward with a boy on +either side of her, and Susan walking backwards in front, all telling the +story of a cuckoo,—or gowk, as Sara called it in Purday’s language,—which +they had found in a water-wagtail’s nest in a heap of stones; how it sat +up, constantly gaping with its huge mouth, while the poor little +foster-parents toiled to their utmost to keep it supplied with +caterpillars, and the last time it was seen, when full-fledged, were +trying to lure it to come out of the nest by holding up green palmers at +some little distance before it. This was in the evening; by morning it +was gone, having probably taken flight at sunrise. + +Miss Fosbrook listened with all the pleasure the boys could desire. She +had read natural history, and looked at birds stuffed in the British +Museum, or alive at the Zoological Gardens, on the rare days when her +father had time to give himself and his children a treat; and her fresh +value and interest in all these country things were delightful to the +boys. + +It was a lovely summer evening. The sun was low enough to make the +shadows long and refreshing, as they lay upon the blooming grass of the +wilderness, softly swaying in the breeze, all pale with its numerous +chaffy blossoms, and varied by the tall buttercups that raised up their +shining yellow heads, or by white clouds of bold-faced ox-eye daisies. + +The pear-trees were like white garlands; the apple-trees covered with +white blossoms and rosy buds; the climbing roses on the wall were +bursting into blossom; the sky was one blue vault without a cloud. + +Surely Elizabeth had no lack here of what was pretty. Then why did she +lag behind, unseeing, unheeding of all, but peevishly pushing off John +and Anne, thinking that they always teased her worst on Sundays, and very +much discomfited that Miss Fosbrook was not attending to her? Surely the +fault was not altogether in what was outside her. + +“See!” cry the boys. Miss Fosbrook must first look up there, high upon +the side of the house, niched behind that thick stem of the vine. What, +can’t she see those round black eyes and little beak? They see her plain +enough. Ah! now she has them. That’s a fly-catcher. By and by they +shall be able to show her the old birds flying round, catching flies on +the wing, and feeding the young ones, all perched in a row. + +Now, can she scramble up the laurels? Yes, she hopes so; though she +wished she had known what was coming, for she would have changed her +Sunday muslin. But a look of anxiety came on Sam’s face as he peeped +into the clump of laurels; he signed back the others, sprang upon the +dark scraggy bough of the tree, and Hal called out, + +“Gone! has Ralph been there?” + +“Ay, the black rascal; at least, I suppose so. Not an egg left, and they +would have hatched this week!” + +“Well, Purday calls him his best friend,” said Harry. “He says we should +not get a currant or a gooseberry if it wasn’t for that there raven, as +Papa won’t have the small birds shot.” + +“Bring down the nest, Sam,” cried Susan; “Georgy will like to have it.” + +The children behind, who never could hear of anything to be had without +laying a claim to it, shouted that they wanted the nest; but Sam said Sue +had spoken first, and they fell back discontented, and more bent on their +unkind sport. Miss Fosbrook was rather shocked at the tearing out the +nest, and asked if the old bird would not have another brood there; but +it was explained that a thrush would never return to a forsaken nest; and +when Sam came down with it in his hand, she was delighted with the +wonderful cup that formed the lining, so smooth and firm a bason formed +of dried mud set within the grassy wall. She had thought that swallows +alone built with mud, and had to learn that the swallows used their clay +for their outer walls, and down for their lining, whereas the thrush is a +regular plasterer. + +Sam promised her another thrush to make up for her disappointment, and +meantime conducted her to a very untidy old summer-house, the moss of +whose roof hung down loose and rough over a wild collection of headless +wooden horses, little ships with torn sails, long sticks, battered +watering-pots, and old garden tools. She was desired to look up to one +of the openings in the ragged moss, and believe that it housed a kitty +wren’s family of sixteen or eighteen; but she had to take this on trust, +for to lay a finger near would lead to desertion; in fact, Sam was rather +sorry to be able to point out to her, on coming out, the tiny, dark, +nutmeg, cock-tailed father kitty, popping in and out of the thorn hedge, +spying at the party. + +Now then for a wonder as they came out. Sam waved everybody away—nay, +waved is a small word for what he did—shouted, pushed, ordered, would be +more like it. He was going to give Miss Fosbrook such a proof of his +esteem as hardly any one enjoyed, not even Hal, twice in the summer. + +Everybody submitted to his violent demonstrations, and Christabel +followed him to the back of the summer-house. There stood a large red +flower-pot upside down. + +“Now, Miss Fosbrook!” + +Sam’s finger hooked into the hole at the top. Off came the flower-pot, +and disclosed something flying off with rushing wings, and something +confused remaining,—a cluster of grey wings all quill, with gaping yellow +mouths here and there opening, a huddling movement always going on in the +forlorn heap, as if each were cold, and wanted to be undermost. + +“Tits, my tits!” said Sam triumphantly; “they’ve built their nest here +three years following.” + +“But how do they get in and out?” + +“Through the hole. Take care, I’ll show you one.” + +“Won’t you frighten away the bird?” + +“Oh dear no! Ox-eyes aren’t like wrens; I go to them every day. See!” +and he took up in his hand a creature that could just be seen to be +intended for a bird, though the long skinny neck was bare, and the tiny +quills of the young wings only showed a little grey sprouting feather, as +did the breast some primrose-coloured down. Miss Fosbrook had to part +with some favourite cockney notions of the beauty of infant birds, and on +the other hand to gain a vivid idea of what is meant by “callow young.” + +Sam quickly put his nestling back, and showed her the parent. She could +hardly believe that the handsome bird in the smooth grey coat and bright +straw-coloured waistcoat, with the broad jet-black line down the centre, +the great white cheeks edged with black, and the bold knowing look, could +be like what the little bits of deformity in the nest would soon become. + +“Ay, that’s an ox-eye,” said Sam. “You’ll hear them going on +peter—peter—peter—all the spring.” + +But Sam was cut short by a loud and lamentable burst of roaring where +they had left the party. + +Miss Fosbrook hurried back, hearing Hal’s rude laugh as she came nearer, +it was Elizabeth, sobbing in the passionate way in which it is not good +to see a child cry, and violently shaking off Susan, who was begging her +to stop herself before Miss Fosbrook should come. + +What _was_ the matter? + +“Oh! Betty’s nonsense.” + +“Johnnie _did_—” + +“Johnnie only—” + +“Now, Hal!” + +“Tell-tale!” “Cry-baby!” + +“She only cried that Miss Fosbrook might hear.” + +So shouted the little Babel, Bessie sobbing resentfully between her +words, till Miss Fosbrook, insisting that everybody should be quiet, +desired her to tell what had happened. + +“Johnnie—Johnnie called me a toad.” + +The others all burst out laughing, and Miss Fosbrook, trying to silence +them with a frown, said it was very rude of John, but she saw no reason +why a girl of Bessie’s age should act so childish a part. + +“He’s been teasing me, and so has Anne, all this time!” cried Bessie. +“They’ve been at me ever since I came out, pulling me and plaguing me, +and—” + +“Well,” said Susan, “I told you to walk in front of Miss Fosbrook, where +they could not.” + +“I didn’t do anything to her,” said John. + +“Now, Johnnie!” + +“He only pulled her frock and poked her ankles,” said Anne pleadingly + +“Only—and why did you do what she did not like?” + +Johnnie looked sturdy and cross. Anne hung her head; and Elizabeth burst +out again, + +“They always do—they always are cross to me! I said I’d tell you, and +now they said Ida was a conceited little toad, and stingy Bet was +another;” and out burst her howls again. + +“A very sad and improper way of spending a Sunday evening,” said Miss +Fosbrook, who had really grown quite angry. “Anne and John, I _will_ put +an end to this teasing. Go to bed this instant.” + +They did not dare to disobey, but went off slowly with sulky footsteps, +muttering to one another that Miss Fosbrook always took pipy Betty’s +part; Nurse said so, and they wished Mamma was at home. And when they +came up to the nursery, Nurse pitied them. She had never heard of a +young lady doing such a thing as ordering off two poor dear children to +bed for only just saying a word; but it seemed there were to be +favourites now. No, she could not put them to bed; they must wait till +Mary came in from her walk; she wasn’t going to put herself out of the +way for any fine London governess. + +So Johnnie had another conquest over Miss Fosbrook; but Anne was +uncomfortable, and went and sat in a corner, wishing she had had her +punishment properly over, and kicking her brother away when he wanted to +play with her. + +As for Bessie, she only cried the more for Miss Fosbrook’s trying to talk +to her. It was a way of hers, perhaps from being less strong than the +others, if once she started in a cry she could not leave off. + +Susan told Miss Fosbrook so; and the boys tried to drag her on with a +promise of a blackbird’s nest; but she thought them unfeeling to such +woeful distress, and first tried to reason with Bessie, then to soothe +her, till at last, finding all in vain, she thought bed the only place +for the child, and led her into the house, helped her, still shaking with +sobs, to undress, and was going to see her lie down in the bed which she +shared with Susan. Elizabeth was still young enough to say her prayers +aloud. The words came out in the middle of choking sobs, not as if she +were much attending to them. Miss Fosbrook knelt down by her as she was +going to rise, and said in her own words, + +“Most merciful God, give unto this Thy child the spirit of content, and +the spirit of love, that she may bear patiently all the little trials +that hurt and vex her, and win her way as Thy good soldier and servant. +Amen.” + +Elizabeth held her breath to listen. It was new and odd. She did not +like to say Amen; she did not know if the governess were not taking a +liberty. Perhaps it was a new way of telling her she was +wrong—Christabel, whom she had thought on her side. + +The bad temper woke up, and would not let her offer a friendly kiss. She +hid her face in the pillow, and as soon as Miss Fosbrook had shut the +door, went off into a fresh gust of piteous sobs, because Miss Elizabeth +Merrifield was the most miserable ill-used child in all the world. + +She might be one of the most miserable, but it was not because of her +ill-usage, but because she had no spirit to be cheerful, and had turned +away from comfort of the right kind. She was in such a frame as to +prefer thinking everyone against her, to supposing that anything she +could do would mend matters. + +Christabel was much grieved at this unfortunate end to the Sunday +evening. She looked over all the boys’ birds’ eggs—they were allowed to +keep two of every sort as curiosities—and listened to some wonderful +stories of Henry’s about climbing trees, and shooting partridges, and she +kept the remaining children quiet and amused; but she was not happy in +her mind. + +She thought she must have been wrong in not watching them more closely, +and she felt more dislike and indignation against Johnnie than she feared +was altogether right in his governess. Also, she feared to make too much +of Elizabeth, and was almost afraid that notice taught her to be still +more fretful. And yet there was a sense of being drawn to her by their +two minds understanding each other, by likeness of tastes, by pity, and +by a wish to protect one whom her little world oppressed. + +Nurse Freeman could not be more afraid of Miss Fosbrook making favourites +than she was herself. + +All she could do in the matter was that which she had already done at +Bessie’s bedside, and much more fully than when the little girl was +listening to her. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +WITH Monday morning began the earning of the pig. Miss Fosbrook’s first +business after prayers was to deal out the week’s allowance—sixpence to +each of the four elders, threepence apiece to the three younger ones. + +“May there be no fines,” she said. + +“I’ll not have the hundredth part of a fine!” shouted Henry, tossing his +money into the air. + +Little David’s set lips expressed the same purpose. + +“Please let me have a whole sixpence,” said Susan. “If I haven’t any +change, I sha’n’t spend it.” + +“You, Sukey! you’d better have the four farthings,” laughed Sam. “You’ll +be the first to want them.” + +Susan laughed; and Miss Fosbrook, partly as an example to the plaintive +Elizabeth, said, “You are so good-humoured, Susie, that I can’t find it +in my heart to demand a fine—or—your hair; and there,” pointing to the +stout red fingers, “did you ever behold such a black little row?” + +“Oh dear!” cried Susan, in her good-humoured hearty voice, “how tiresome, +when they were _so_ clean this morning, and I’ve only just been feeding +the chicken, and up in the hay-loft for the eggs, and pulling the +radishes!” + +“Well, go and wash and brush, and to-morrow remember the pig,” said Miss +Fosbrook, unable to help comparing the radishes and the fingers for +redness and for earthiness. + +It was a more difficult matter when, as Elizabeth put her silver coin +into her purse, John must needs repeat the stupid old joke, “There goes +stingy Bet!” and Bessie put on her woeful appealing face. + +“John, I shall punish you if I hear those words again.” + +“I don’t mind. Nurse says you have no business to punish me! She did +not put me to bed; and I had such fun! Oh, such fun!” and the boy looked +up with a grin that set all the others laughing. + +Christabel resolutely kept silence, and hoped her looks did not show her +annoyance, as the boy went on, “I got lots of goodies, for Nurse said she +had no notion of no stranger punishing her children. Oh! Oh! Oh!” For +Samuel had hold of his ear, and was tweaking it sharply. + +“There! Go and tell Nurse, if you like, baby!” + +“Sam, indeed I can’t have my battles fought in that way!” cried the +governess, much distressed, as Johnnie roared, perhaps that old Nurse +might hear, and, to all attempts to find out whether he were hurt, +offered only heels and fists, till Susan came back and hugged him into +quiet. + +“Now Johnnie has cried before breakfast on a Monday morning,” said Annie, +“all the rest of the week will go wrong with him.” + +“Indeed,” said Miss Fosbrook, “I hope no such thing.—Suppose we try and +show Annie she is wrong, Johnnie!” + +But Johnnie was sulky, and even Susan looked as if she thought this a new +and dangerous notion. Sam laughed, and said, “I wish you joy, Miss +Fosbrook. Now he’ll think he must be naughty.” + +“Johnnie,” said David solemnly, “the pig.” + +The pig was a very good master of the ceremonies, and kept all elbows off +the table at breakfast-time; and Bessie, who was apt to stick fast in the +midst of her bread and milk, and fall into disgrace for daintiness and +dawdling, finished off quietly and prosperously. + +Then every one was turned loose till nine o’clock. Susan had charge of +Mamma’s keys, and had to go down to the kitchen, see what the cook +wanted, and put it out, but only on condition that no brother or sister +ever went with her to the store-closet. Susan was highly trustworthy, +but Mamma was too wise to let her be tempted by voices begging for one +plum, one almond, or the last spoonful of Jam. It took away a great deal +of the pleasure of jingling the keys, and having a voice in choosing the +pudding. + +The two elder boys went to their tutor, the other children to the +nursery, except Elizabeth, who was rummaging in her little box, and +David, whom Miss Fosbrook found perched on the ledge of the window, +reading a book that did not look as if it were meant for men of his size. + +But Miss Fosbrook thought David like the oldest person in the +house—infinitely older than John, who could do nothing better than he +except running and bawling, and a good deal older than even Hal and Sam. +Nay, there were times when he raised his steady eyes and slowly spoke out +his thoughts, when she felt as if he were much more wise and serious than +her twenty-years old self. + +“Well, Davy,” she asked, as at the sound of the lesson-bell the little +old man uncrossed his sturdy legs, closed his book, and arose with a +sigh, “have you found out all about it?” + +“I have found out why a pig is a profitable investment,” he answered +gravely. + +“And why?” + +“Because he will feed upon refuse, and fatten upon cheap food,” said +David, in the words of his book; “only I can’t make out why. Do you +know, Miss Fosbrook?” + +“I don’t quite see what you want to know, Davy.” + +“I want to know why a pig gets fat on barley-meal, when an ox wants +mange, and oil-cake and hay. I asked Nurse, and she said little boys +mustn’t ask questions; and I asked Purday, and he said it was because +pigs is pigs, and oxen is oxen. Why do you think it is, Miss Fosbrook?” + +“I don’t think; I know it is because the great God has made one sort of +creature to be easily fed, and made good for poor people to live upon,” +said Miss Fosbrook. + +David’s eyes were fixed on her as if he still had questions to ask, and +she was quite afraid of her powers of answering them, for he was new in +the world, and saw the strangeness of many things to which older people +become used by living with them, but which are not the less strange for +all that. + +However, the trampling of many feet put an end to question and answer, +and the day’s work had to begin with the Psalms, and reading the Morning +Lessons. Bessie was by far the best reader; and David did very well, +though he made very long stops to look deliberately at any long new word, +and could not bear to be told before he had mastered it for himself. +Even Susan was sadly given to gabbling and missing the little words that +she thought beneath her attention; and the other two stumbled so +horribly, that it was pain to hear them. + +This beginning might be taken as the sign of how all would do their +lessons. It is only a child here and there, generally a lonely one, to +whom lessons can be anything but a toil and an obligation. Even with +clever ones, who may be interested in some part of their study, some +other branch will be disagreeable; and there is nothing in the whole +world to be learnt without drudgery, so it would be unreasonable to +expect lessons to be regarded as delightful; but there is one thing that +is to be expected of any good child—not to enjoy lessons; not to surpass +others; not to do anything surprising; only to make a conscience of doing +what is required as well as possible. + +Now do not many children seem to think that they are to receive as little +as they can possibly take in without being punished; or that, if they +make any exertion, their teachers ought to be so much obliged to them, +that some great praise or reward is due to them? + +Let us see whether anyone in Stokesley school-room was making a +conscience of the day’s tasks. It is not of much use to ask for any at +present in Johnnie—not for a whole week, as Annie would declare; he does +not know his single Latin declension; his spelling, is all abroad; his +geography wild; yet though turned back once, he misses the fine by just +saying his lessons passably the last time. They perhaps ought, in strict +justice, to have been sent back; but Miss Fosbrook was very glad to be +saved the uproar that would have ensued, and almost wondered whether she +were not timidly merciful to the horrible copy and the greasy slate. But +Johnnie had no fine, and was as proud of it as if he had been a good boy. +“She hadn’t caught him out,” he said, as if his kind governess had been +his enemy. + +As to Annie, her French verbs were always dreadful things to hear, and +the little merry face, usually so bright, used to grow quite deplorable +with the trouble she took not to use her mind. Using her memory was bad +enough, but saying things by heart was an affliction she was used to, and +it was very shocking of Miss Fosbrook to require her to find out _how_ +many years Richard II. had reigned, if he began in 1377 and ended in +1399. Susan prompted her, however; so she really got a triumph over Miss +Fosbrook, and was quite saved from thinking. Oh, but the teasing woman! +she silenced Susan, and would have this poor injured Annie tell how old +the tiresome man was. “Began to reign at eleven years old, dethroned +after twenty-two years; how old was he?” Annie found bursting out crying +easier than thinking, and then they all cried out, “O Nanny, the pig!” +and Miss Fosbrook had the barbarity to call that _foolish_ crying! What +might one cry for, if not at being asked how old Richard II. was? If the +fine must be paid, there was no use in stopping; so Annie howled till +Miss Fosbrook turned her out to finish on the stairs; and as Nurse +Freeman was out with the little ones, there was no one to comfort her; so +she cried till she was tired, and when the noise ceased, Susan was +allowed to come and coax her, and fetch her back to go on with her copy, +as soon as her hand was steady enough. She felt very foolish by this +time, and thought David eyed her rather angrily and contemptuously; so +she crept quietly to her corner, and felt sad and low-spirited all the +rest of the morning. Now that thirty-three had come into her head, it +seemed so stupid not to have thought of it in time; and then she would +have saved her farthing, and her eyes would not have been so hot. + +Maybe, too, Susan’s French phrases would not have been turned back. Miss +Fosbrook would have given a great deal not to have been obliged to do it, +but she had prompted flagrantly already, and a teacher is obliged to have +a conscience quite as much as a scholar; so the book was given back, and +Susan spent twelve minutes in see-sawing herself, and going over the +sentences in a rapid whispering gabble, a serious worry to the governess +in listening to Bessie’s practising and David’s reading, but she thought +it would be a hardship to be forbidden to learn in her own way at that +moment, and forbore. David was interrupted in his “Little Arthur’s +History,” and looked rather cross about it, for Susan to try again. She +made all the same blunders—and more too! Back again! Poor Susie! Once, +twice, thrice, has she read those stupid words over, and knows less of +them than before. Davy’s loud voice will go into her understanding +instead of those French phrases. She looks up in dull stupefaction. + +William Rufus is disposed of, and David, as grave as a judge, is taking +up his slate, looking a little fussed because there is a scratch in the +corner. “Well, Susan,” says Miss Fosbrook. + +Susan jumps up in desperation, and puts her hands behind her. Oh dear! +oh dear! all that the gentlemen on a journey were saying to one another +has gone clean out of her head! + +She cannot recollect the three first words. She only remembers that this +is the third time, and another farthing is gone! She stands and stares. + +“Susan,” says Miss Fosbrook severely, “you never tried to learn this.” + +Susan gives a little gasp; and Elizabeth, who has said her French without +a blunder, puts in an unnecessary and not very sisterly word: “Susan +never will learn her French.” + +Susan’s honest eyes fill with tears, but she gulps them back. She will +not cry away another farthing, but she does feel it very cross in Bessie, +and she is universally miserable. + +Christabel feels heated, wearied, and provoked, and as if she were fast +losing her own temper; and that made her resolve on mercy. + +“Susie,” she said with an effort, “run twice to the great lime-tree and +back. Then take the book into my room, read this over three times, and +we will try again.” + +Susan looked surprised, but she obeyed, came back, and repeated the +phrases better than she had ever said French before. She was absolutely +surprised and highly pleased, and she finished off her other lessons +swimmingly; but oh, she was glad to be rid of them! Yes, they were off +her mind, and so she deserved that they should be! She flew away to the +nursery, and little Sarah was soon crowing in her arms. + +Elizabeth? Not a blunder in French verbs or geography—very tidy copy. +French reading good; English equally so, only it ended in a pout, because +there was not time for her to go on to see what became of Carthage; and +she was a most intolerable time in learning her poetry out of the book of +Readings, or rather she much preferred reading the verses in other parts +of the book to getting perfect in her lesson, and then being obliged to +turn her mind to arithmetic. Miss Fosbrook called her three times; and +at last she turned round peevishly at being interrupted in the middle of +the “Friar of Orders Gray,” and repeated her twenty lines of Cowper’s +“Winter’s Walk” in a doleful whine, though without a blunder. + +It was one of the horrible novelties that Miss Fosbrook was bringing in, +that she expected people to understand their sums as well as work them. +She gave much shorter ones, to be sure, than Mamma, who did sometimes set +a long multiplication sum of such a huge size, that it looked as if it +were meant to keep the victim out of the way; but who would not prefer +casting up any length of figures, to being required to explain the +meaning of “carrying”? + +Really, if it had not been for the pig, that shocking question might have +led to a mutiny in the school-room. When it was bad enough to do the +thing, how could anyone ask what was meant by the operation, and why it +was performed? + +What did Bessie do when her sum was being overlooked? Miss Fosbrook read +on: “4 from 8, 4; 7 from 1—how’s this, Bessie? 7 from 10 are—” + +“3, and 1 are 4,” dolorously, as her 3 was changed. + +“Now then, what next?” + +“Carry one.” + +“What did I tell you was meant by carry one?” + +“The tens,” said Bessie, not in the least thinking “the tens” had +anything to do with the matter, but only that she had heard something +about them, and could thus get rid of the subject. + +“Now, Bessie, what tens can you possibly mean? Think a little.” + +“I’m sure you said tens once,” said injured innocence. + +“That was in an addition sum. See, here it is quite different. I told +you.” + +Bessie put on a vacant stare. She was not going to attend to what she +did not like. + +Miss Fosbrook saw the face. She absolutely shrank from provoking another +fit of crying, and went quickly through the explanation. She saw that +her words might as well have been spoken to the slate. Bessie neither +listened nor took them in. Not all her love for her dear Christabel +Angela could stir her up to make one effort contrary to her inclinations. +The slate was given back to her, she wiped out the sum in a pet, and ran +away. + +Miss Fosbrook turned round, David, whose lessons had been perfectly +repeated an hour ago, was sitting cross-legged in the window, with his +slate and pencil, and a basket of bricks, his great delight, which he was +placing in rows. + +“Miss Fosbrook,” said he, “isn’t this it? Twelve bricks; take away those +seven, then—1, 2, 3, 4, 5—the twelve is only 5: the 10 is gone, isn’t it? +so you must leave one out of the next figure in the upper line of the +sum.” + +Now Davy had only begun arithmetic on the governess’s arrival, but he had +learnt numeration and addition in her way. She was so delighted, that +she stooped down and kissed him, saying, “Quite right, my little man.” + +Davy rather disapproved of the kiss, and rubbed his brown-holland elbow +over his face, as if to clear it off. + +“Well,” thought Christabel, as she hurried away for five minutes’ peace +in her own room before the dinner-bell, “it is a comfort to have one +pupil whose whole endeavour is not to frustrate one’s attempts to educate +him.” + +Poor young thing! that one little bit of sense had quite cheered her up. +Otherwise she was not one whit less weary than the children. She had +been learning a very tough lesson too—much harder than any of theirs; and +she was not at all certain that she had learnt it right. + +Now, readers, of all the children, who do you think had used the most +conscience at the lessons? + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +WHAT an entirely different set of beings were those Stokesley children in +lesson-time and out of it! Talk of the change of an old thorn in winter +to a May-bush in spring! that was nothing to it! + +Poor, listless, stolid, deplorable logs, with bowed backs and crossed +ankles, pipy voices and heavy eyes! Who would believe that these were +the merry, capering, noisy creatures, full of fun and riot, clattering +and screeching, and dancing about with ecstasy at Sam’s information that +there was a bonfire by the potato-house! + +“A bonfire!” said the London governess, thinking of illuminations; “what +can that be for?” + +“Oh, it is not _for_ anything,” said Susan; “it is Purday burning weeds. +Don’t you smell them? How nice they are! I was afraid it was only +Farmer Smith burning couch.” + +All the noses were elevated to scent from afar a certain smoky odour, +usually to be detected in July breezes, and which reminded Miss Fosbrook +of a brick-field. + +“Potatoes! Potatoes! We’ll roast some potatoes, and have them for tea!” +bellowed all the voices; so that Miss Fosbrook could hardly find a space +for very unwillingly saying, + +“But, my dears, I don’t know whether I ought to let you play with fire.” + +“Oh, we always do,” roared the children; and Susan added, + +“We always roast potatoes when there’s a bonfire. Mamma always lets us; +it is only Purday that is cross.” + +“Yes, yes; Mamma lets us.” + +“Well, if Sam and Susan say it is right, I trust to them,” said Miss +Fosbrook gladly; “only you must let me come out and see what it is. I am +too much of a Londoner to know.” + +“Oh yes; and we’ll roast you some potatoes.” + +So the uproarious population tumbled upstairs, there to be invested with +rougher brown-holland garments than those that already concealed the +sprigged cottons of the girls; and when the five came down again, they +were so much alike in dress, that it was not easy to tell girls from +boys. Susan brought little George down with her, and off the party set. +Sam and Hal, who had been waiting in the hall, took Miss Fosbrook between +them, as if they thought it their duty to do the honours of the bonfire, +and conducted her across the garden, through the kitchen-garden, across +which lay a long sluggish bar of heavy and very odorous smoke, to a gate +in a quickset hedge. Here were some sheds and cart-houses, a fagot pile, +various logs of timber, a grindstone, and—that towards which all the +eight children rushed with whoops of ecstasy—a heap of smoking rubbish, +chiefly dry leaves, and peas and potato haulm, with a large allowance of +cabbage stumps—all extremely earthy, and looking as if the smouldering +smoke were a wonder from so mere a heap of dirt. + +No matter! There were all the children round it, some on their knees, +some jumping; and voices were crying on all sides, + +“O jolly, jolly!” “I’ll get some potatoes!” “Oh, you must have some +sticks first, and make some ashes.” “There’s no flame—not a bit!” “Get +out of the way, can’t you? I’ll make a hot place.” “We’ll each have our +own oven, and roast our own potatoes!” “Don’t, Sam; you’re pushing me +into the smoke!” + +This of course was from Elizabeth; and there followed, “Don’t, Bessie, +you will tread upon Georgie.—Yes, Georgie, you _shall_ have a place.” + +“Sticks, sticks!” shouted Henry; while Sam was on his knees, poking out a +species of cavern in the fire, where some symptoms of red embers +appeared, which he diligently puffed with his mouth, feeding it with +leaves and smaller chips in a very well practised way. “Sticks, Annie! +Johnnie! Davy! get sticks, I say, and we’ll make an oven.” + +Annie obeyed; but the two little boys were intent on imitating Sam on +another side of the fire, and Johnnie uttered a gruff “Get ’em yourself,” +while David took no notice at all. + +Perhaps Hal would have betaken himself to no gentle means if Susan had +not hastily put in his way a plentiful supply of dead wood, which she had +been letting little George think he picked up all himself; and there was +keen excitement, which Christabel could not help sharing, while under +Sam’s breath the red edges of the half-burnt chip glowed, flushed, +widened, then went sparkling doubtfully, slowly, to the light bit of +potato-stalk that he held to it, glowing as he blew—fading, smoking, when +he took breath. Try again—puff, puff, puff diligently; the fire +evidently has a taste for the delicate little shaving that Annie has +found for it; it seizes on it; another—another; a flame at last. Hurrah! +pile on more; not too much. “Don’t put it out!” Oh, there! strong +flame—coming crackling up through those smothering heaps of stick and +haulm; it won’t be kept down; it rises in the wind; it is a red flaring +banner. The children shriek in transports of admiration, little George +loudest of all, because Susan is holding him tight, lest he should run +into the brilliant flame. Miss Fosbrook is rather appalled, but the +children are all safe on the windward side, and seem used to it; so she +supposes it is all right, and the flame dies down faster than it rose. +It is again an innocent smouldering heap, like a volcano after an +eruption. + +“We must not let it blaze again just yet,” said Sam; “keep it down well +with sticks, to make some nice white ashes for the potatoes. See, I’ll +make an oven.” + +They were all stooping round this precious hot corner, some kneeling, +some sitting on the ground, David with hands on his sturdy knees—all +intent on nursing that creeping red spark, as it smouldered from chip to +chip, leaving a black trace wherever it went, when through the thick +smoke, that was like an absolute curtain hiding everything on the farther +side, came headlong a huge bundle of weeds launched overwhelmingly on the +fire, and falling on the children’s heads in an absolute shower, knocking +Johnnie down, but on a soft and innocent side of the fire among the +cabbage-stumps, and seeming likely to bury Sam, who leant over to shelter +his precious oven, and puffed away as if nothing was happening, amid the +various shouts around him, in which “Purday” was the most audible word. + +“Ah, so you’ve got at he, after all,” said Purday, leaning on the fork +with which he had thrown on the weeds. “Nothing is safe from you.” + +“What, you thought you had a new place, Purday, and circumvented us!” +cried Hal; “but we smelt you out, you old rogue; we weren’t going to be +baulked of our bonfire.” + +Miss Fosbrook here ventured on asking if they were doing mischief; and +Purday answered with an odd gruff noise, “Mischief enough—ay, to be +sure—hucking the fire all abroad. It’s what they’re always after. I did +think I’d got it safe out of their way this time.” + +“Then,” in rather a frightened voice, for she felt that it would be a +tremendous trial of her powers, “should I make them come away?” + +“Catch her!” muttered Hal. + +There was horror and disapprobation on Susan’s face. Annie stood with +her mouth open; while John, throwing himself on the ground with fury, +rolled over, crying out something about, “I won’t,” and “very cross;” and +David lay flat on his face, puffing at his own particular oven, like a +little Wind in an old picture. Sam waited, leaning on the ashen stick +that served him as a poker. It was the most audacious thing he had ever +heard. Rob them of their bonfire! Would that old traitor of a Purday +abet her? + +Perhaps Purday was as much astonished as the rest; but, after all, much +as the children tormented his bonfires, overset his haycocks, and +disturbed his wood-pile, he did not like anyone to scold them but +himself, much less the new London Lady; so he made up an odd sort of +grin, and said, “No, no, Ma’am, it ain’t that they do so much harm; let +’em bide;” and he proceeded to shake on the rest of his barrowful, +tumbling the weeds down over David’s cherished oven in utter disregard; +but the children cried with one voice, “Hurrah! hurrah! Purday, we don’t +do any harm, so don’t ever grumble again. Hurrah!” + +“And I don’t care for _her_, the crosspatch,” said Johnnie to Annie, +never hearing or heeding Miss Fosbrook’s fervent “I am so glad!” + +And as long as the foolish boy remembered it, he always did believe that +Miss Fosbrook was so cross as to want to hinder them from their bonfire, +only Purday would not let her. + +Miss Fosbrook did not trouble herself to be understood; she was relieved +to have done her duty, and be free to rejoice in and share the pleasure. +She ran about and collected materials for Sam till she was out of breath, +and joined in all the excitement as the fire showed symptoms of reviving, +after being apparently crushed out by Purday. Sam and Susan, at least, +believed that she had only spoken to Purday because she thought it right; +but even for them to forgive interference with their bonfire privileges +was a great stretch. + +At last she thought it time to leave them to their own devices, and seize +the moment for some quiet reading; but she had not reached the house +before little steps came after her, and she saw Elizabeth running fast. + +“They are so tiresome,” she said. “Sam won’t let me stand anywhere but +where the smoke gets into my eyes, and George plagues so! May I come in +with you, dear Christabel?” + +“You are very welcome,” said Miss Fosbrook, “but I am sorry to hear so +many complaints.” + +“They are so cross to me,” said Bessie; “they always are.” + +“You must try to be cheerful and good-humoured with them, and they will +leave off vexing you.” + +“But may I come in? It will be a nice time for my secret.” + +Christabel saw little hope for her intended reading, but she was always +glad of a space for making Bessie happy, so she kindly consented to the +bringing out of the little girl’s treasury, and the dismal face grew +happy and eager. The subjects of the drawings were all clear in her +head; that was not the difficulty, but the cardboard, the ribbon, the +real good paints. One little slip of card Miss Fosbrook hunted out of +her portfolio; she cut a pencil of her own, and advised the first attempt +to be made upon a piece of paper. The little bird that Bessie produced +was really not at all bad, and her performance was quite fair enough to +make it worth while to go on, since Miss Fosbrook well knew that mammas +are pleased with works of their children, showing more good-will than +skill. For why? Their value is in the love and thought they show. + +The little bird was made into a robin with the colours in a paint-box +that Bessie had long ago bought; but they were so weak and muddy, that +the result was far from good enough for a present, and it was agreed that +real paints must be procured as well as ribbon. Miss Fosbrook offered to +commission her sisters to buy the Prussian blue, lake, and gamboge in +London, and send them in a letter. This was a new idea to Bessie, and +she was only not quite decided between the certainty that London paints +must be better than country ones, and the desire of the walk to Bonchamp +to buy some; but the thought that the ribbon, after all, might be +procured there, satisfied her. The little doleful maid was changed into +an eager, happy, chattering child, full of intelligence and contrivance, +and showing many pretty fancies, since there was no one to tease her and +laugh at her; and her governess listened kindly and helpfully. + +Miss Fosbrook could not help thinking how much happier her little +companion would have been as an only child, or with one sister, and +parents who would have made the most of her love of taste and refinement, +instead of the hearty busy parents, and the rude brothers and sisters, +who held her cheap for being unlike themselves. But then she bethought +her, that perhaps Bessie might have grown up vain and affected, had all +these tastes been petted and fostered, and that perhaps her little +hardships might make her the stronger, steadier, more useful woman, +instead of living in fancies. It was the unkindness on one side, and the +temper on the other, that made Miss Fosbrook uneasy. + +The work had gone on happily for nearly an hour, and Bessie was copying a +forget-me-not off a little painted card-board pincushion of her own, when +steps were heard, little trotting steps, and Susan came in with little +George. He had been pushed down by Johnnie, and was rather in a fretful +mood; and Susan had left all her happy play to bring him in to rest and +comfort him, coming to the school-room because Nurse Freeman was out. +Before Elizabeth had time to hide away her doings, George had seen the +bright pincushion, and was holding out his hands for it. Bessie hastily +pocketed it. George burst out crying; and Susan, without more ado, threw +herself on her sister, and, pinioning Bessie’s slight arm by the greater +strength of her firm one, was diving into her pocket in spite of her +struggles. + +“Susan, leave off,” said Miss Fosbrook; “let your sister alone. She has +a right to do what she likes with her own.” + +“It is so cross in her,” said Susan, obeying however, but only to snatch +up little George, and hug and kiss him. “Poor dear little man! is Betty +cross to him? There! there! come with Sue, and _she’ll_ get him +something pretty.” + +“Susie, Susie, indeed it’s only that I don’t want him to spoil it,” said +Elizabeth, distressed. + +“A foolish thing like that! Why, the only use of it is to please the +children; but you are just such a baby as he is,” said Susan, still +pitying George. + +“You had better put your things away, Bessie,” said Miss Fosbrook, +interfering to stop the dispute; and as soon as Elizabeth was gone, and +George a little pacified by an ivory ribbon-measure out of Miss +Fosbrook’s work-box, she observed to Susan, “My dear, you must not let +your love for the little ones make you unjust and unkind to Bessie.” + +“She always is so unkind to them,” said Susan resentfully. + +“I don’t think she feels unkindly; but if you tyrannize over her, and +force her to give way to them, you cannot expect her to like it.” + +“Mamma says the elder must give way to the younger,” said Susan. + +“You did not try whether she would give way.” + +“No, because I knew she wouldn’t; and I could not have my little Georgie +vexed.” + +“And I could not see my little Susie violent and unjust,” said Miss +Fosbrook cheerfully. “Justice first, Susan; you had no right to rob +Bessie for George, any more than I should have to give away a dinner of +your papa’s because he had refused a beggar.” + +“Papa never would,” said Susan, rather going off from the point. + +“Very likely; but do you understand me, Susan? I will not have Bessie +_forced_ out of her rights for the little ones. Not Bessie only, but +nobody is to be tyrannized over; it is not right.” + +“Bessie is so nonsensical,” was all Susan said, looking glum. + +“Very likely she may seem so to you; but if you knew more, you would see +that all is not nonsense that seems so to you. Some people would admire +her ways.” + +“Yes, I know,” said Susan. “Mrs. Greville told Mrs. Brownlow that Bessie +was the only one among us that was capable of civilisation; but Mrs. +Greville is a fine lady, and we always laugh at her.” + +“And now,” as Bessie returned, “you want to go out to your play again, my +dear. Will you leave Georgie with us?” + +Susan was a little doubtful about trusting her darling with anyone, +especially one who could take Bessie’s part against him; but she wished +exceedingly to be present at the interesting moment of seeing whether the +potatoes were done enough, and George was perfectly contented with +measuring everything on the ribbon, so she ran quickly off, without the +manners to thank Miss Fosbrook, but to assure the rest of the party that +the governess really was very good-natured, and that she would save her +biggest and best potato for Miss Fosbrook’s tea. + +Christabel managed very happily with little George, though not quite +without offending Elizabeth, who thought it very hard to be desired to +put away her painting instead of tantalizing her little brother with the +sight of what he must not have. Miss Fosbrook could not draw her into +the merry game with little George, which made his shouts of glee ring out +through the house, and meet Nurse Freeman’s ear as she came in-doors with +the baby, and calling at the school-room door, summoned him off to his +tea, as if she were in a pet with Miss Fosbrook for daring to meddle with +one of _her_ own nursery children. + +Nothing more was heard of the others, and Christabel and Elizabeth both +read in peace till the tea-bell rang, and they went down and waited and +waited, till Miss Fosbrook accepted Bessie’s offer of going out to call +the rest. But Bessie returned no more than the rest; and the governess +set forth herself, but had not made many steps before the voices of the +rabble rout were heard, and they all were dancing and clattering about +her, while Susan and Hal each carried aloft a plate containing articles +once brown, now black, and thickly powdered with white ashes, as were the +children themselves up to their very hair. + +As a slight concession to grown-up people’s prejudices, they did, at the +risk of their dear potatoes getting cold, scamper up to perform a species +of toilette, and then sat down round the tea-table, Susie, David, and Sam +each vociferous that Miss Fosbrook should eat “my potato that I did on +purpose for her.” Poor Miss Fosbrook! she would nearly as soon have +eaten the bonfire itself as those cinder-coated things, tough as leather +outside, and within like solid smoke. Indeed the children, who had been +bathing in smoke all day, had brought in the air of it with them; but +their tongues ran fast on their adventures, and their taste had no doubt +that their own bonfire potatoes were the most perfect cookery in art! +Miss Fosbrook picked out the most eatable bits of each of the three, and +managed to satisfy the three cooks, all zealous for their own. Other +people’s potatoes might be smoky, but each one’s own was delicious—“quite +worthy of the pig when he was bought,” thought Miss Fosbrook; but she +made her real pleasure at the kind feeling to cover her dislike of the +black potatoes, and thus pleased the children without being untrue. + +“Line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little, and there a +little.” That is the way habits are formed and characters made; not all +at once. So there had been an opportunity for Susan to grow confirmed in +her kindness and unselfishness, as well as to learn that tyranny is +wrong, even on behalf of the weak; and Bessie, if she would take home the +lesson, had received one in readiness to be cheerful, and to turn from +her own pursuits to oblige others. Something had been attempted toward +breaking her habit of being fretful, and thinking herself injured. It +remained to be seen whether the many little things that were yet to +happen to the two girls would be so used as to strengthen their good +habits or their bad ones. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +IT is not worth while to go on describing every day at Stokesley, since +lessons were far too much alike; and play-times, though varied enough for +the house of Merrifield, might be less entertaining to the readers. + +Enough to say, that by Saturday afternoon John had not only forfeited his +last farthing, but was charged with another into next week, for the poor +pleasure of leaving his hat on the school-room floor because Elizabeth +had told him of it. At about four o’clock it set in for rain, catching +the party at some distance from home, so that, though they made good +speed, the dust turned into mud, and clung fast to their shoes. + +David, never the best runner, was only in time to catch Johnnie by the +skirt upon the third step of the staircase, crying out, “The pig!” but +Johnnie, tired of the subject, and in a provoking mood, twitched away his +pinafore, crying, “Bother the pig!” and rushed up after the four who had +preceded him, leaving such lumps of dirt on the edge of every step, that +when Miss Fosbrook came after with Elizabeth she could not but declare +that a shower was a costly article. + +“You see,” observed Susan, “when it’s such fine weather it puts one’s +feet out of one’s head.” + +While Sam, Henry, and Bessie were laughing at Susan for this speech, +little George trotted in, crying out, “Halty man come, Halty man come; +Georgie want sweetie!” + +“The Gibraltar man!” cried John and Annie with one voice, and they were +at the bottom of the stairs with a bound. + +“Oh, send him away, send him away. They’ll spend all their money, and +there will be none left!” was David’s cry; while George kept dragging his +eldest sister’s frock, with entreaties of “Susie, Susie, come.” + +“They call him the Gibraltar man, because he sells Gibraltar rock, and +gingerbread, and all those things,” said Henry in explanation. “We have +always dealt with him; and he is very deserving; and his wife makes it +all—at least I know she makes ginger-beer—so we must encourage him.” + +So Henry hastened downstairs to encourage the Gibraltar man; and Susan, +saying soothingly, “Yes, yes, Georgie;—never mind Davie, we’ll make up +for it; I can’t vex him,” had taken the little fellow in her arms and +followed. + +“Pigs enough here, without sending to the fair,” muttered Sam. + +“Please, Sam, please, Miss Fosbrook, send the Gibraltar man away, and +don’t let him come,” cried David quite passionately. “Nasty man! he will +come every Saturday, and they’ll always spend all their money.” + +“But, my friend,” said Miss Fosbrook good-humouredly, “suppose we have no +right to banish the Gibraltar man?” + +“_I_ don’t wan’t him,” said Bessie; “it makes my fingers sticky.” + +“You’re no good,” said David vehemently. “I don’t like you, and I hate +the Gibraltar man, taking away all our money from poor Hannah.” + +“Gently, gently, Davie; nobody makes you spend your money; and perhaps +the poor man has children of his own who want food as much as Hannah’s +do.” + +“Then can’t they eat the Gibraltar rock and bulls’ eyes?” + +Sam suggested that this diet would make them sick; to which poor little +earnest David answered, that when once the pig was bought, he would give +all his money for a whole month to the Gibraltar man, if he would not +come for the next four weeks. + +And Christabel thought of what she had once read, that people would often +gladly put away from their children friends the very trials that are sent +by Heaven to prove and strengthen their will and power of resisting +self-indulgence. Before she had quite thought it out, the quick steps +were back again, and Sam greeted the entrance of John thus: “Well, if +that isn’t a shame! Have you been and done Sukey out of all that, Jack?” + +“It was only three bulls’ eyes,” said Susan, following. “You know he had +nothing of his own, and it was so hard, and Annie gave him some.” + +“And Nurse some,” added Hal. “Trust Jackie for taking care of himself.” +Well he might say so, considering how full were John’s mouth, hands, and +pockets. + +“And Davie has had nothing!” said kind Susan. “Here, Davie!” holding out +to him an amber-like piece of barley-sugar. + +“I don’t want your stuff,” said David roughly. “You’ve spent all away +from the pig.” + +“No, Davie, indeed, only twopence,” said Susan; “pray have a bit.” + +“You might at least say thank you,” said Miss Fosbrook. + +But how difficult is that middle road which is the only right one! +David, being too much set on one single purpose, good though it was, +could see nothing else. It was right and generous to abstain from sweets +with this end in view; but it was wrong to be rude and unthankful to the +sister who meant all so kindly, and was the most unselfish of all. She +turned round to Elizabeth with the kind offer of the dainty she had not +even tasted herself, but was not more graciously treated. + +“How can you, Susie? it is all pulled about with your fingers.” + +This was a matter on which the Misses and Masters Merrifield were not +wont to be particular; and with one of the teasing laughs that Bessie +hated, Sam exclaimed as Susan turned to him, “Yes, thank you, Sukey, _I_ +don’t mind finger sauce,” but not before John was stretching out a hand +glazed with sugar, and calling out, “Oh, give it to me!” and as it +disappeared in his brother’s mouth, he burst out angrily, “How cross, +Sam! You did that on purpose!” + +“Yes,” said Sam, “I did; for though pigs on four legs are all very well, +I don’t like pigs on two.” + +“Here, Jackie, never mind,” said Susan, seeing him about to begin to cry, +and offering him her last sugar-plum. + +“I don’t want sugar-plums, I want barley-sugar,” said John devouring it +nevertheless. + +“I haven’t one bit more,” said Susan regretfully. + +“Have you had any yourself, Susan?” asked Sam. + +“No; but I didn’t want any.” + +“Oh then, here Susie, I always keep a reserve,” said Henry. “No, no, not +you, Jack; I don’t feed little pigs, whatever Susie does.” + +And in spite of Susan, both the elder brothers set on John, teasing him +about his greediness, till he burst out crying, and ran away to the +nursery. Miss Fosbrook hated the teasing, but she thought it served John +so rightly, that she would not save him from it; and she only interfered +to remind the others that their fingers would bring them in for fines +unless they were washed before tea. + +“And how much have you spent?” reproachfully asked that rigid young +judge, David; but all the answer he got was a pull by the hair from Hal, +and “Hollo, young one! am I to give my accounts to you?” + +David gravely put up his hand and smoothed his ruffled locks, repeating, +in his manful way, “I want to know what you have left for the pig?” + +Whereupon Hal laid hold of him, pulled him off the locker, and rolled him +about on the floor like a puppy dog, crying, “I’ll tell you what, if you +make such a work about it, I’ll spend all my allowance, and not subscribe +at all.” + +“Sam!” cried the tormented David, and “Sam!” cried the governess, really +afraid the little boy would be hurt; but Sam only stood laughing with his +back to the shutter, and Christabel herself hurried to the rescue, to +pick Henry off his victim, holding an arm tight, while the child got up, +and ran away to get his hair re-brushed for tea. + +“Now, Hal, you might have hurt him,” argued the governess. + +“Very good thing for him too,” said the brothers with one voice. + +She was very much shocked; but when she thought it over she perceived +that though Hal might be to blame, yet in the long run even this rough +discipline might be more useful to her dear little David than being +allowed to take upon him with his elder brothers, and grow conceited and +interfering. + +Miss Fosbrook was not surprised when, next morning, a frightful bellowing +was heard instead of Johnnie being seen, and she learnt that Master John +was in the hands of Nurse Freeman, who was administering to him a dose in +consequence of his having been greatly indisposed all night. It must be +confessed that Christabel was not very sorry to hear it, nor that Nurse +would keep him to herself all day; for bad company as Johnnie had been on +the week-days, he had been worse on the Sunday. + +And when John came out on Monday, he looked like a different boy; he had +lost his fractious, rebellious look; he spoke as civilly as could be +expected of a small Merrifield, and showed no signs of being set against +his lessons. To be sure it was a bad way of spending a Sunday, to be +laid up with ailments brought on by over-eating; but even this was better +than spending it, like the former one, in wilful misbehaviour; and John, +who knew that Papa, Mamma, brothers, and sisters all alike detested and +despised real greediness, had been heartily ashamed of himself, both for +this and his forfeits. A new week was a new starting-point, and he meant +to spend this one well. For indeed it is one of the blessings of our +lives that we have so many stages—days, weeks, years, and the like—from +each of which we may make fresh starts, feel old things left behind, and +go on to lead a new life. + +Besides, Johnnie was quite well now; and perhaps no child, so well +brought up, could have been so constantly naughty the whole week without +some degree of ailment, suspected neither by himself nor others. For +this is one of our real troubles, when either young or old, that +sometimes there is a feeling of discomfort and vexation about us that, +without knowing why, makes everything go amiss, causes everybody else to +appear cross, and all tasks, all orders, all misadventures, to become +great grievances. Grown-up people feel this as well as children; but +they have gone through it often enough to know what is the matter, and +they have, or ought to have, more self-command. But children have yet to +learn by experience that the outer things are not harder and more +untoward, so much as that they themselves are out of sorts. This is poor +comfort; and certainly it is dangerous to say to ourselves that being +poorly is any excuse for letting ourselves be cross, or for not doing our +best. If Mrs. Merrifield had thought so, what miserable lives her +husband and children would have led! No, the way to use the certain fact +that the state of our bodies affects our tempers and spirits, is to say +to ourselves, “Well, if this person or this thing do seem disagreeable, +or if this work, or even this little bit of obedience, be very tiresome, +perhaps it may really be only a fancy of mine, and if I go to it with a +good will, I may work off the notion;” or, “Perhaps I am cross to-day, +let me take good care how I answer.” And a little prayer in our hearts +will be the best help of all. Self-command and goodness will not come by +nature as we grow up, but we must work for them in childhood. + +When the Monday allowances were brought out, and the pig’s chance +inquired into, David alone produced his whole sum, untouched by +forfeiture or waste, and dropped it into “Toby Fillpot.” Elizabeth had +her entire sixpence; but a penny had been spent on a letter to Mamma, and +she gave but one to the fund, in spite of the black looks she met from +David. Sam had lost a farthing by the shower, and had likewise bought a +queen’s head, to write to his father. The rest, fourpence-three +farthings, he paid over. Poor Johnnie! his last week’s naughtiness had +exceeded his power of paying fines, and a halfpenny was subtracted from +this week’s threepence; while the Gibraltar man had consumed all that +fines had spared to little Annie, had left Susan only threepence, and +Henry but twopence-halfpenny. This, with twopence that Miss Fosbrook had +found in her travelling-bag, made one shilling and fourpence-farthing—a +very poor collection for one week. David was quite melancholy. + +“Never mind,” said Henry; “Mr. Carey’s brother, the Colonel, is coming to +stay here the last week in July, and he gives us boys half-a-sovereign +each, so that we might buy a stunning pig all ourselves twice over.” + +“Always? He never did so but once,” said Sam. + +“That was the only time he saw us, though,” said Hal; “and we were quite +little boys then. I’ll tell you what, Sam, he’ll give us each a +sovereign this time, and then I’ll buy a bow and arrows.” + +“Stuff!” said Sam. “I hope he won’t.” + +“Why not?” + +“I hate it! I hate saying thank you; I shall get out of the way, if I +can.” + +“Sam has no manners!” said Hal, turning round to Miss Fosbrook. “To +think that he had rather go without a sovereign or two than say thank +you!” + +“_I’m_ too much of a gentleman to lay myself out for presents!” retorted +Samuel; and the two boys fell on each other, buffeting one another, all +in good part on Sam’s side, though there was some temper and annoyance on +Henry’s. + +When Sam was out of hearing, Hal discoursed very grandly on the sovereign +he intended Colonel Carey to give him, and the prodigious things he meant +to do with it. A gentleman once gave Osmond Greville two sovereigns; why +should not Colonel Carey be equally liberal? And to hear the boy, those +two sovereigns would buy everything in the world, from the pig to a +double-barrelled gun. David began to grow hurt, and to fear the Toby +fund would be lost in this magnificence; but Hal assured him that it +would be a help, and they should all have a share in the pig, promising +presents to everybody, which Susan and Annie expected with the more +certainty that Sam was never present to laugh down these fine projects. + +Indeed Miss Fosbrook had laughed at them once or twice, and observed that +she thought money earned or spared a better thing than money given; and +this caused Hal to cease to try to dazzle her, though he could not give +up the pleasure of regaling his sisters in private with the wonders to be +done with Colonel Carey’s possible sovereigns. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +THE second week was prosperous: the treasury made progress; and +Christabel began to feel as if her pupils were not beyond her management, +as at first she had feared. Collectively they were less uncouth and +bearish, not so noisy at their meals, nor so needlessly rude to one +another; and the habit of teasing Elizabeth whenever there was nothing +else to do was greatly lessened. Indeed Sam did not plague her himself, +nor let his brothers do so, unless she tempted him by some very foolish +whine or bit of finery; and in such eases a little friendly merriment is +a sound cure, very unlike the hateful fault of tormenting for +tormenting’s sake. + +Nor did Elizabeth give nearly so much cause for their rough laughter, +since Miss Fosbrook had given wholesome food to her tastes and likings, +partly satisfying the longing for variety, beauty, or interest which had +made her discontented and restless. Her head was full of _her_ secret, +and her pretty plans for her gift. Such lovely drawings she saw in her +mind’s eye, such fairies, such delightful ships, kittens, babies in the +cradle! But when the pencil was in her hand, the lines went all ways but +the right; her fairy was a grimy little object, whose second wing could +never be put on; the ships were saucers; the kitten might have been the +pig; the baby was an owl in an ivy-bush; and to look at the live baby in +the cradle only puzzled her the more. Miss Fosbrook gave her real +drawing lessons; but boxes, palings, and tumble-down sheds, done with a +broad black pencil, did not seem to help her to what she wished. Yet +sometimes her fingers produced what surprised and pleased herself and +Christabel; and she never was happier than when safely shut into Miss +Fosbrook’s bed-room with her card and her paints. She used to bolt +herself in, with a little parade of mystery that made Annie exceedingly +curious, though the others generally let it alone as “Betty’s fancy.” + +Christabel wanted to learn botany for her own pleasure. She found a book +which Susan and Bessie pronounced to be horridly stupid (indeed Annie +called it nasty, and was reproved for using such a word), but when the +information in it was minced up small, and brought out in a new form, +Bessie enjoyed it extremely. The whole party were delighted to gather +flowers for Miss Fosbrook—the wetter or the steeper places they grew in +the better; but the boys thought it girlish to know the names; and Susan, +though liking gardening, did not in the least care for the inside of a +flower. Elizabeth, however, was charmed at the loveliness that was +pointed out to her; and even Annie, when the boys were not at hand, +thought it very entertaining to look at petals, stamens, and pistils, and +to see that a daisy is made up of a host of tiny flowers. Both little +sisters were having their eyes opened to see some of the wonder and some +of the glory of this earth of ours. It made Bessie much less often tired +of everything and everybody; though after all there is but one spirit +that is certain never to be weary or dissatisfied, and into that she had +yet to grow. + +Fines were much less frequent: there were no foolish tears; only one +lesson of John’s turned back, two of Annie’s, one of Susan’s; some +unbrushed hair of Susan’s too—an unlucky mention of the raven by Annie in +lesson-time—and some books left about by Sam. Henry’s fines were the +serious ones: he had two for incorrect sums, one for elbows on the table, +three for talking, one for not putting his things away; and besides, he +_could not_ go without a pennyworth of string; and the Grevilles would +have laughed at him if he had not bought some more marbles. + +But what did that signify when Colonel Carey was coming? and a sovereign +would buy a pig three times over—at least, if it was quite a little one. +Christabel wished the hope of that sovereign had never occurred to him, +for he seemed to think it quite set him free from the little +self-restraints by which the others were earning the pleasure of making +the gift; and though he still talked the most about the pig, he denied +himself the least for it. + +One evening the boys came in with a great piece of news. Their tutor had +read in the paper that Admiral Penrose was appointed to the _Ramilies_, +to take command in the Mediterranean. He was a great friend of their +father, and, said the boys, was most likely to make him his flag-captain. + +“And me a naval cadet!” said Hal. “He said he would, when he was here!” + +“One of you, he said,” put in Susan. + +“I know it will be me!” said Hal. “He looked at the rigging of my +frigate, and said I knew all the ropes quite well; and he told Papa he +might be proud of such a son!” + +“Oh! oh!” groaned the aggrieved multitude. + +“Well—such a family; but he was looking at me; and I know he will give me +the appointment; and I shall sail in his ship—you’ll see. And when I get +to the Mediterranean, I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I shall kill a shark all +my own self!” + +“A shark in the Mediterranean!” + +“Well, why shouldn’t they get in by the Straits of Magellan? Oh! is that +the other place? Well, never mind—I’ll shoot the shark.” + +“Stuff, Hal!” said Sam rather gruffly. + +Hal went off on another tack. “Well, at least he has set me down by this +time; and Papa will have me up to London for my outfit.” + +“I hope you will have leave, and come and see us,” said Annie. + +“I’ll try; but, you see, I shall be an officer on duty, and I dare say +Admiral Penrose will hardly be able to spare me; but I’ll send you all +presents out of my pay.” + +“You’ll spend all your pay on yourself,” said David. + +“Out of my prize-money then.” + +“You can’t get prize-money without a war,” said Elizabeth. + +“Oh! don’t let there be a war!” cried Susan. + +“Yes, but there is!” said Harry in a tremendous tone; and as Miss +Fosbrook held up her hands, “at least there was one in the Black Sea; and +I know there was a battle in the newspaper—at least, Mr. Carey read about +Palermo.” + +“I don’t think Garibaldi in Sicily will put much prize-money into your +pocket, Hal,” said Miss Fosbrook. + +“Oh! but there’s sure to be a war! and I shall get promoted, and be a man +before any of you. I shall go about, and see condors, and lions, and +elephants, and wear a sword—at least, a dirk—while you are learning Latin +and Greek at Uncle John’s!” + +“Don’t make such a noise about it!” said Sam crossly. + +“I don’t know why you should be the one to go,” said Elizabeth. “Sam is +the eldest.” + +“Yes; but Sam is such a slow-coach. Papa said I was the only one fit to +make a sailor of—at least, he said I was smart, and—Hollo! Sam, I won’t +have you kicking my legs!” + +“Don’t keep up such a row then!” growled Sam; but Hal was in too full +swing to be reached by slight measures. He pushed his chair back, tucked +up his feet like a tailor’s, out of reach, and went on: “Then I shall +come home in my cocked hat, like Papa’s—at least, my cap—and come and ask +for a holiday for you all at Uncle John’s.” + +Uncle John was an under-master at one of the great public schools, and +the children were all a good deal in awe of him. + +“Uncle John won’t give one for _you_!” said Sam. + +“Come, boys, I can’t have this bickering,” said Miss Fosbrook. “I can’t +see you trying which can be most provoking. Stand up. Now, David, say +grace. There, Annie, finish that bit of bread out of doors. Go out, and +let us have no more of this.” + +She spoke now with much less fear of not being minded; and having seen +one of the quarrelsome parties safe out of the school-room, she went to +fetch from her own room a glove that wanted mending; and on her return +found Sam alone there, curled up over his lesson-books on the locker, +looking so gloomy, that she was afraid she had made him sulky, for which +she would have been very sorry, since she had a respect for him. + +“What is the matter?” she asked; and his “Nothing” did not at all assure +her that he was in a right mood. She doubted whether to leave him alone; +but presently thought he looked more unhappy than ill-tempered, and +ventured to speak. “Have you a hard piece to learn? Perhaps I could +help you.” + +He let her come and look at his book; but, to her surprise, he had before +him a very easy problem in Euclid. + +“Indeed, if you only gave your mind to this,” she said, “you would soon +make it out.” + +“Stupid stuff!” exclaimed Sam. “It is all along of that, and the rest of +it, that I have got to be a land-lubber!” and he threw the book to the +other end of the room. + +“Have you no chance?” said Miss Fosbrook, without taking notice of this +rudeness, for she saw that the boy could hardly contain himself. + +“No! The Admiral did take notice of Hal; and one day when I was slow at +a proposition, my father said I was too block-headed to beat navigation +into, and that Hal is a smart fellow, worth two of me. I know he is! I +know that; only if he would not make such an intolerable crowing—” + +“Then you wish it very much?” + +“Wish it! Of course I do. Why, my father is a sailor; and I remember +the _Fury_, and I saw the _Calliope_—his ship that he had in the war +time. Before I was as big as little George I always thought I should be +a sailor. And now if Papa goes out with Admiral Penrose, and Hal too—oh! +it will be so horrid home!” + +“But can’t you both go?” + +“No; my father said he couldn’t ask to have two of us put down, unless +perhaps some younger one had a chance by and by. And Hal is the +sharpest, and does everything better than I can when he has a mind. My +father says, among so many all can’t choose; and if this place is to be +mine, Hal may want to be in the navy more than I. Yes, it is all right, +and Hal must go. But—but—when my father is gone—” and Sam fairly burst +out crying. “I didn’t hardly know how different it is with him away till +this month. I was such a little fellow when he went to the Black Sea; +but now—never mind, though!” and he stamped his foot on the floor. “Papa +said it, and it must be. Don’t tell the others, Miss Fosbrook;” and he +resolutely went and picked up his Euclid, and began finding the place. + +“You will do your duty like a man, wherever you are, Sam,” said +Christabel heartily. + +Sam looked as if he had rather that she had not said it, but it was +comfortable to him for all that; and though she kept further compliments +to herself, she could not but think that there was no fear but that he +would be a man, in the best sense of the word, before Hal, when she saw +him so manfully put his sore grievance out of his head, and turn to the +present business of conquering his lesson. Nor did she hear another word +from him about his disappointment. + +It made her dislike Henry’s boasts more than ever; and she used to cut +them short as fast as she could, till the young chatterer decided that +she was “cross,” and reserved all his wonderful “at leasts” for his +sisters, and his proofs of manliness for the Grevilles. + +The Gibraltar man did not come on Saturday; and Miss Fosbrook had been +the saving of several stamps by sending some queer little letters in her +own to Mrs. Merrifield, so that on Monday morning the hoard was increased +to seven-and-sixpence; although between fines and “_couldn’t helps_,” +Henry’s sixpence had melted down to a halfpenny, which “was not worth +while.” + +On this day arrived a servant from the Park, bringing a delicate little +lilac envelope, stamped with a tiny rose, and directed to Miss +Merrifield. There was another rose on the top of the lilac paper; and +the writing was in a very neat hand. + + My dear Susan, + + Mamma desires me to say that she hopes you and Bessie and Annie will + come to dine early to-morrow, and play with me, and that Miss Fosbury + will come with you. She hopes your Mamma is better, and would be + glad to have her address in London. + + I am your affectionate + IDA ARABELLA GREVILLE. + +“Oh! Miss Fosbrook, may we go?” cried the girls with sparkling eyes. + +Mrs. Merrifield had written that one or two such invitations might be +accepted, but she had rather it did not happen too often, as visits at +the Park were unsettling to some of the children. So as this was the +first, Christabel gladly consented, rather curious and rather shy on her +own account. + +Elizabeth begged for the rose, to copy it, and as there were no little +ones present to seize it, she was allowed to have it; while Susan groaned +and sighed over the misfortune of having to write a “horrible note” just +at play-time; and the boys treated it as a sort of insult to the whole +family that Ida should have mistaken their governess’s name. + +“Tell her you won’t go till she has it right,” said Sam; at which Annie +made a vehement outcry of “No, no!” such as made them all laugh at her +thinking him in earnest. + +Susan’s note began— + + My dear Ida, + + We shuold— + +But then perceiving that something was the matter with her word, Susan +sat and looked at it, till at last, perceiving that her _u_ and _o_ had +changed places, she tried putting a top to the _u_, and made it like an +_a_; while the filling up the _o_ made it become a blot, such as caught +Bessie’s eye. + +“O Susie, you won’t send such a thing as that up to Ida?” + +“No—that _would_ be a ‘horrible note,’” said her governess; and she ruled +the lines again. + +“Dear me,” said Susan impatiently; “can’t one send a message up by the +man that we’ll all come, without this fuss?” + +But Miss Fosbrook said that would be very uncivil; and Susan, groaning, +stretched every finger till the lines were finished, and began again, in +her scraggy round-hand—getting safely through the “should,” and also +through “like to come very much;” but when Miss Fosbrook looked up next, +she saw that the rest of the note consisted of— + + Mamma is at Grandmamma’s, No. 12,—St., Grovensor Place. + + I am your affectionate + SUSANNA MERRIFIELD. + +“My dear, I am very sorry.” + +“What! won’t that do?” sighed Susan, beginning to get into despair. + +Miss Fosbrook pointed to the word “Grovensor.” + +“Oh dear! oh dear! I thought I had got that tiresome word this time. +Why can’t it put its _ss_ and _ns_ into their proper sensible places?” +cried poor Susan, to whom it was a terrible enemy. She used to try them +in different places all the way round, in hopes that one might at last be +right. + +“Can’t you remember what I told you, that the first Grosvenor was the +grand huntsman? _Grosveneur_ in French; that would show you where to put +the _s—gros_, great.” + +But Susan never wished to remember anything French; and Sam observed that +“the man deserved to be spelt wrong if he called himself by a French +name. Why couldn’t he be content to be Mr. Grandhunter?” + +“But as he is not, we must spell his name right, or Mrs. Greville will be +shocked,” said Miss Fosbrook. + +“Please can’t you scratch it out?” said the disconsolate Susan. + +“_I_ should not like to send a note with a scratch in it. Besides, yours +is hardly civil.” + +“No, indeed,” said Elizabeth; “don’t you know how people answer +invitations, Susie? I’ll tell you. ‘Miss Susanna, and Miss Elizabeth, +and Miss Annie Merrifield will be very happy to do the honour of dining +with —’ Sam, why do you laugh at me always?” + +“Why, you are telling Ida you will do her honour by dining with her.” + +“People always do honour when they dine,” said Elizabeth. “I know they +do.” + +“They profess to receive the honour, not confer it, Bessie,” said Miss +Fosbrook, laughing; “but I don’t think that is the model for Susie’s +note. It would be as much too formal as hers was too blunt.” + +“Must I do it again?” said Susan. “I had rather not go, if it is to be +such a plague.” + +“Indeed, I fear you must, Susie. It is quite needful to learn how to +write a respectable note; really a more difficult thing than writing a +long letter. I am sorry for you; but if you were not so careless in your +letters to Mamma this would come more easily to you.” + +But this time Miss Fosbrook not only ruled another sheet, but wrote, in +fair large-hand on a slate, the words, that Susan might copy them without +fresh troubles: + + We are much obliged to your Mamma for her kind invitation, and shall + have much pleasure in coming with Miss Fosbrook to dine with you and + spend the day. I am sorry to say that Mamma was not quite so well + when last we heard. Her address is—No. 12,—St., Grosvenor-place. + +Susan thought that here were a very serious number of words, and begged +hard for leave to leave out her sorrow. Of course she was sorry, but +what was the use of telling Ida so? + +Miss Fosbrook thought it looked better, but Susan might do as she +pleased. + +“I wouldn’t say it, then,” said Sam. “I wouldn’t say it only to look +better to Ida.” With which words he and Hal walked off to the garden. + +Would it be believed? Susan, in her delight at being near the end, +forgot the grand huntsman, and made the unlucky Place “Grovesnor,” and +then, in her haste to mend it, put her finger into the wet ink, and +smeared not only that word, but all the line above! + +It was a shame and a wonder that a girl of her age should be so incapable +of producing a creditable note; and Miss Fosbrook was very near scolding +her but she had pity on the tearful eyes and weary fingers, and spoke +cheerfully: “There, that was almost the thing. One more trial, Susan, +and you need never be afraid of Ida’s notes again.” + +If Susan could not write notes, at least she was not cross; and it would +be well if many who could send off a much better performance with far +less difficulty could go to work as patiently as she did, without one +pettish word to Miss Fosbrook, though that lady seemed to poor Susie as +hard a task mistress as if she could have helped it. This time Miss +Fosbrook authorized the leaving out of the spending the day, and +suggested that S. would be enough without the whole Susanna, and she +mercifully directed the cover to Miss Greville. + +“There, my dear, you have worked hard for your pleasure,” she said, as +Susan extended each hand to its broadest stretch to uncramp them, and +stretched herself backwards as if she wanted to double her head down to +her heels. “I shall give you a good mark, Susie, as if it had been a +lesson.” + +Susan deserved it, for her patient perseverance had been all out of +obedience, not in the mere desire of having her note admired. Indeed, +good child, at the best it was a very poor affair for a girl of twelve, +and Miss Fosbrook was ashamed of it when she looked at Ida’s lady-like +little billet. + +“But I wonder,” said she to herself, “whether I shall feel as if I would +change my dear stupid Susan for Miss Ida?” + +Meanwhile Susan flew screaming and leaping out into the garden in a mad +tom-boy fashion; but that could well be pardoned, as there were only her +sisters to see her; and the pleasure of having persevered and done her +best was enough to make her heart and her limbs dance for merriment. + +Depend upon it, however wretched and miserable hard application to what +we do not like may seem at the moment, it is the only way to make +play-times really delicious. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +MISS FOSBROOK soon knew what Mrs. Merrifield meant by saying that visits +at the Park unsettled the children. Susan indeed, though liking anything +that shortened lessons by an hour, and made a change, was not so fond of +being on her good behaviour at the Park as to be greatly exalted at the +prospect; but Elizabeth and Annie were changed beings. They were +constantly breaking out with some new variety of wonder. They wondered +whether they should dine in the school-room, or at Mrs. Greville’s +luncheon; they wondered if Mr. Greville would speak to them; they +wondered whether Fräulein Munsterthal would be cross; they wondered if +Ida still played with dolls; and they looked as if they thought +themselves wonderful, too, for going out for a day! + +Nay, the wonders were at their tongues’ end even when lessons began, and +put their farthings in great peril; and when they had nothing else to +wonder at, they wondered when it would be twelve o’clock, and took no +pains to swallow enormous yawns. Once, over her copy, Elizabeth +exclaimed, “Now! yes, this is necessary, Miss Fosbrook! May not we wear +our white frocks?” + +“They are not ironed,” answered Susan. + +“Oh, do let me go and tell Mary! There’s lots of time,” said Bessie, who +had lately thought it cruel of the clock to point only to half-past ten, +and never bethought herself how Mary would like to be called off from her +scrubbing to iron three white frocks. + +“Would your Mamma wish it?” asked Christabel. + +“Oh dear no,” was Susan’s answer; “we always wear clean ones of our +every-day frocks. Our white ones are only for dinner-parties and +Christmas-trees.” + +Bessie grumbled. “How cross! I hate those nasty old spotty cottons;” +and Johnnie returned to the old story—“Little vain pussy-cat.” + +Up went Miss Fosbrook’s warning pencil, she shook her head, and held out +her hand for two fines. Elizabeth began to gulp and sob. + +“Oh, don’t, Betty!” cried Susan. “Stop while you can. You won’t like +going up with red eyes. There, I’ll pay your fine; and there’s another +for my speaking.” + +“No, Susie; that was not foolish speaking, but kind words,” said Miss +Fosbrook; “but no more now; go on, Annie.” + +But Annie, who was reading a little history of St. Paul, would call +Cilicia, Cicilia, and when told to spell it she began to cry too +decidedly for Susan’s good-nature to check her tears. And not only did +Elizabeth’s copy look as if she had written it with claws instead of +fingers, but she was grieving over her spotted cotton instead of really +seeking for places in her map. Thus the Moselle obstinately hid itself; +and she absolutely shed tears because Miss Fosbrook declared that +Frankfort _was_ on the Maine. For the first time she had her grammar +turned back upon her hands. How many mistakes Annie made would be really +past telling; for these two little girls had their whole minds quite +upset by the thought of a day’s pleasure; and as they never tried to +restrain themselves, and to “be sober, be vigilant,” they gave way before +all the little trials in their paths—were first careless, and then +fractious. Perhaps when they were older they would find out that this +uplifted sense of excited expectation is the very warning to be heedful. + +If Miss Fosbrook had been a strict governess, she would have told them +they did not deserve to go at all; or at any rate, that Bessie must +repeat her grammar better, and re-write her copy, and that Annie’s +unlucky addition sum must be made to prove; but she had seen her little +sisters nearly as bad in prospect of a pantomime, so she was merciful, +and sent them in good time to brush their hair, put on their spotted +cottons, and wash off as much as possible of the red mottling left by +those foolish tears. + +Their spirits rose again as fast as they had sunk; and it was a lively +walk through the park to the great house, with a good deal of skipping +and jumping at first, and then, near the door, a little awe and gravity. + +They were taken through a side-door of the hall to the school-room, where +Ida and her governess received them. It was the first time that +Christabel had seen her out of her beplumed hat, and she thought her a +pleasant, bright-looking little girl, not at all set up or conceited. +Her mauve muslin, flounced though it was up to her waist, showed that it +had been wise to withstand Bessie’s desire for the white muslins; but +Miss Fosbrook had enough to do on her own account with the endeavour to +understand the German governess’s foreign accent, without attending to +the children more than was necessary. + +It was not a very remarkable day, and the pleasures of it seemed hardly +enough to justify the little girls’ great excitement. There was first +the dinner at the luncheon of the parents, where the children sat up +rather formal and subdued, and not quite certain what all the dishes +might contain, a little afraid of getting what they _could_ not eat, +though desirous of making experiments in this land of wonders. None of +them had forgotten, and they thought no one else had, how Bessie had once +come to disgrace by bursting out crying over the impossibility of +finishing some terrible rice-bordered greenish yellow stuff that burnt +her mouth beyond bearing, and which Ida called curry, and said people in +the East Indies liked. However, that was when Bessie had been a very +little girl; and she still continued adventurous, saying, “Yes, if you +please,” to cutlets set round in a wreath, with all their bones sticking +up, and covered with a reddish incrustation that Susan and Annie thought +so unnatural, that they preferred the boiled chicken that at least they +could understand, though it had funny-hooking accompaniments in the +sauce. And Hal’s report of some savoury jelly which he had once +encountered would have deterred them from the pink transparency in the +shape of a shell, if they had not seen Bessie getting on very well with +it, Miss Fosbrook happily perceiving and cutting short Annie’s intended +inquiry whether it were nice. To her great relief, this was the only +want of manners betrayed by her little savages, and she was able to keep +her attention tolerably free from them, so as to look at the pictures on +the walls, observe the two boys, Hal’s friends, and talk to Mrs. +Greville, who made conversation with her very pleasantly. + +She was much grieved to perceive, from what that lady said, that Mrs. +Merrifield was thought to be much more ill, and in a far more alarming +state, than she had at all understood. The girls were too young to enter +into the tone of sad sympathy with which Mrs. Greville spoke, and the +manner in which a doubt was expressed whether the Captain would be able +to sail with Admiral Penrose if he should have the offer; and as soon as +she saw that they and their governess were in ignorance, she turned it +off; but she had said enough to fill Christabel with anxiety and desire +to know more; and as soon as the dinner was over, and the little girls +had run off together to visit Ida’s beautiful cockatoo in the +conservatory, she turned to Fräulein Munsterthal, and begged to hear +whether she knew more than had been said. + +Fräulein Munsterthal did not quite know that such a person as Mrs. +Merrifield was in existence; but she was very amiable and warm-hearted, +and said how sad it was to think of the trouble that hung over “these so +careless children,” and was doubly kind to the girls when they came back +from their conversation with pretty “Cocky,” who set up his +lemon-coloured crest, coughed, sneezed, and said “Cocky want a biscuit!” +to admiration, till the boys were seen approaching; when Ida, knowing +that some torment would follow, took herself and her visitors back to the +protection of the governesses in time to prevent the cockatoo from being +made to fly at the girls, and powder them with the white dust under his +feathers. + +The afternoon was spent in the garden, the little girls betaking +themselves to a pretty moss-covered arbour, where there was a grand +doll’s feast. Ida had no less than twenty-three dolls, ranging from the +magnificent Rosalind, who had real hair that could be brushed, and was as +large as little Sally at home, down to poor little china Mildred, whose +proper dwelling-place was a bath, and who had with great difficulty been +put into petticoats enough to make her fit to be seen out of it. Now +nobody at home could have saved the life of a doll for a single day, and +Susan and Elizabeth were both thought far above them; but these +beautifully arrayed young ladies had always been the admiration of the +heart of Bessie as well as of Annie, and they were not too old for +extreme satisfaction in handling their elegant ladyships, and still more +their beautiful dinner and tea-service of pink and white ware. + +Susan, though she could not write a note, or do lessons like Ida, was +older in the ways of life, and played rather as she did with the little +ones at home than for her own amusement. She would much rather have had +the fun of “cats and mice” with her brothers; and but for the honour of +the thing, so perhaps would Annie. However, they were all very happy, +getting the dolls up in the morning, giving Mildred washing enough for +all the twenty-three, making them breakfast, hearing lessons, in which +Ida was governess, and made them talk so many languages that Annie was +alarmed. Of course one of the young ladies was very naughty, and was +treated with extreme severity; then there was dinner, a walk, an illness, +and a dinner-party. While all the time the two real governesses sat in +the shade outside, and talked in English or German as best they might, +the Fräulein understanding Christabel’s English the best, as did +Christabel the Fräulein’s German. They began to make friends, and to +wish to see more of one another. + +There was a walk round the garden, and admiration of the beautiful +flowers, and the fountain and pond of gold-fish, till the boys came home, +and got hold of the garden-engine for watering, crying out, “Fire! fire!” +and squirting out the showers of water very much in the direction of the +girls. + +Ida became quite crimson red, and got hold of Susan’s hand to drag her +away; then, as the foremost drops of another shower touched her, she +faced about, and said, “Osmond! don’t, or I’ll tell Mamma.” There was a +great rude laugh, as of boys who well knew the threat was never put in +execution; and poor Fräulein Munsterthal only shook her head at Miss +Fosbrook’s look of amaze, and said in German that “_die Knaben_” were far +too _unartig_ for her to keep in order. She pitied Miss Fosbrook for +having so many in charge as to destroy all peace. And if Sam and Hal had +been like these two, Christabel felt that she could have done nothing +with them. To her dismay, Osmond and Martin came in to the school-room +tea; and she never had thought to feel so thankful for poor dear Susan’s +slowness of comprehension, for, from their whispers among themselves, and +from their poor tormented sister’s blushes, she was clear that the “fire” +was a piece of bad wit on Susan’s red hair. Boys who could so basely +insult a guest, and that a girl, she was sure must be bad companions for +Sam and Henry. Such little gentlemen as they had been at dinner too, so +polite and well-behaved before their father and mother! There could be +no doubt that something must be very wrong about them, or they would not +change so entirely when out of sight. It is not always true that a child +must be deceitful who is less good in the absence of the authorities; +because their presence is a help and a restraint, checking the beginning +of mischief, and removing temptation; but one who does not fall by +weakness, but intentionally alters his conduct the instant the elder is +gone, shows that his will has been disobedient all along. + +By and by Mr. Greville’s voice was heard calling, “Martin! Osmond!” As +they went out to meet him in the passage, Miss Fosbrook clearly +overheard, “Here is the spring of the garden-engine spoilt. Do you know +anything about it?” + +“No.” + +“You have not been meddling with it?” + +“No.” And they ran downstairs. + +The colour flushed into Christabel’s cheeks with horror. She was glad +that her little girls were all in Ida’s room, listening to a musical-box, +and well out of hearing of such fearfully direct falsehoods, as it seemed +to her, not knowing that the boys excused it to their own minds by the +notion that it was not the _spring_ of the engine that they had been +meddling with, and that so they did not know how the harm had been +done—as if it made it any better that they lied to themselves as well as +their father! The German saw her dismay, and began to say how unlike her +Ida was to her brothers—so truthful, so gentle, and courteous; but poor +Christabel could not get over the thought of the ease and readiness with +which deceit came to these boys. Could their daily companions, Samuel +and Henry, have learnt the same effrontery, and be deceiving her all this +time? No, no, she could not, would not think it! Assuredly not of Sam! +She was very glad not to see the boys again, and went home with her +pupils, rather heavy-hearted, at eight o’clock, just as Ida was to put on +her white muslin and pink ribbons, and go down after dinner for half an +hour. + +There were many kisses at parting, and a whole box of sweets, done up in +beautifully coloured and gold and silver paper, presented to the little +visitors; but it might be supposed that the girls were tired, for there +was a fretful snarling all the way across the park, because Elizabeth +insisted that the gifts should be called _bon-bons_, and the others would +hear of nothing but goodies. Nobody looked at the beautiful evening sky, +nor at the round red moon coming up like a lamp behind the trees, nor at +the first stars peeping out, nor even at the green light of the +glow-worm—all which were more beautiful than anything Ida had shown them, +except perhaps the hothouse flowers; and at last two such cross +ill-tempered voices sounded from Bessie and Annie, that Christabel turned +round and declared that she should not let the sugar-plums be touched for +a week if another word were said about them. + +She hoped that when the visit was over it would be done with; but no such +thing. Though Susan was her own good hearty self, Elizabeth had not +recovered either on that day of the next from the effects of the +pleasuring. On each she cried over her lessons, and was cross at +whatever the boys said to her, made a fuss about keeping the ornamental +cases of the _bon-bons_, and went about round-backed, peevish, and +discontented, finding everything flat and ugly after her one peep at the +luxuries of the Park. Her farthings melted away fast; but she seemed to +think this her misfortune, not her fault. She did not try to talk to +Miss Fosbrook, feeling perhaps that she was in a naughty mood, which she +would not try to shake off; and she made no attempt to go on with her +present for her Mamma, it looked so poor and trumpery after the beautiful +things she had seen. + +Nor did Christabel like to remind her of it, fearing that the occasion +for giving it might never come; but she did feel that it was a mournful +thing to see the child, who was in danger of so fearful a sorrow, wasting +her grief in pining after foolish fancies, and turning what should have +been a refreshing holiday into an occasion of longing after what she thus +made into pomps and vanities of this wicked world. Christabel had heard +that people who murmur among blessings often have those blessings +snatched away, and this made her tremble for poor little discontented +Elizabeth. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +“THERE!” exclaimed Susan, “I really have got a letter from Papa himself. +What a prize!” + +“You’ll have to mind your Grosvenor when you answer _him_,” said Sam; +“but hollo, what’s the matter?” + +For Susan’s eyes had grown large, and her whole face scarlet, and she +gave a little cry as she read. + +“Your Mamma, my dear?” asked Miss Fosbrook. + +“Oh, Mamma—Mamma is so very ill!” and Susan throw the letter down, and +broke into a fit of sobbing. + +Sam caught it up, and Elizabeth came to read it with him, both standing +still and not speaking a word, but staring at the letter with their eyes +fixed. + +“What is it, my dear?” said Miss Fosbrook, tenderly putting her arm round +Susan; but she sobbed too much to make a word distinct, and Bessie held +out the letter to her governess, looking white, and too much awed to +speak. + +Captain Merrifield wrote in short, plain, sad words, that he thought it +right that his children should know how matters stood. The doctors’ +treatment, for which their mother had been taken to London, had not +succeeded, but had occasioned such terrible illness, that unless by the +mercy of God she became much better in the course of a day or two, she +could not live. If she should be worse, he would either write or +telegraph, and Susan and Sam must be ready to set out at once on the +receipt of such a message, and come up by the next train to London, where +they should be met at the station. He had promised their mother that in +case of need he would send for them. + + God bless you, my poor children, and have mercy on us all! + + Your loving father, + H. MERRIFIELD. + +That was all; and Christabel felt, more than even the children did, from +how full and heavy a heart those words had been written. + +Though she hardly knew how to speak, she tried to comfort Susan by +showing her that her father had evidently not given up all hope; but +Susan was crying more at the thought of her Mamma’s present illness and +pain than with fear of the future; and Sam said sadly, “He would not have +written at all unless it had been very bad indeed.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but I believe, in cases like this, there is +often great fear, and then very speedy improvement.” + +“Oh dear,” said Bessie, speaking for the first time, “I know it will be. +Little girls in story-books always do have their mammas—die!” + +“Story-books are all nonsense, so it won’t happen,” said Sam; and really +it seemed as if the habit of contradicting Bessie had suggested to him +the greatest consolation that had yet occurred. + +Just then Henry and the younger ones came in, and learnt the tidings. +Henry wept as bitterly as his elder sister, and John and Annie both did +the same; but David did not speak one word, as if he hardly took in what +was the matter, and, going to the window, took up his lesson-books as +usual. + +“It is nine o’clock, Hal,” said Sam presently. + +“Oh, we can’t go to Mr. Carey to-day,” said Hal. + +“Yes, we shall,” returned Sam. + +“Oh don’t,” cried Susan. “Suppose a telegraph should come!” + +“Well, then you can send for me,” said Sam. “Come, Hal.” + +“How can you, Sam?” said Henry crossly; “I know Mr. Carey will give us +leave when he knows.” + +“I don’t want leave,” said Sam; “I don’t want to kick up a row, as you’ll +do if you stay at home.” + +“Well then, if the message comes, I shall take Susie to London instead of +you. I’m sure they want me most!” + +“No, go down to Mr. Carey’s with your brother, if you please, Hal,” said +Miss Fosbrook decidedly. “If he should tell you not to stay, I can’t +help it; but you will none of you do any good by hanging about without +doing your daily duties.” + +Hal saw he had no chance, and marched off, muttering about its being very +hard. Sam picked up his books, and turned to go, with a grave steady +look that was quite manly in its sadness, only stopping to say, “Now, +Jackie, you be good!—Please Miss Fosbrook, let him run down after me if +the message comes, and I’ll be back before the horse is out.” + +Miss Fosbrook promised, and could not help shaking hands with the brave +boy, if only to show that she felt with him. + +“Then must we all do our lessons?” asked Annie disconsolately, when he +was gone. + +“Yes, my dear; I think we shall all be the better for not neglecting what +we ought to do. But there is one thing that we can do for your dear +Mamma; you know what I mean. Suppose you each went away alone for five +minutes, and were to come back when I ring the little bell?” + +The first to come back was Annie, with the question in a low whisper, +“Miss Fosbrook, will God make Mamma better if we are very good?” + +Miss Fosbrook kissed her, saying, “My dear little girl, I cannot tell. +All I can certainly tell you is, that He hears the prayers of good +children, and if it be better for her and for you He will give her back +to you.” + +Annie did not quite understand, but she entered into what Miss Fosbrook +said enough to wish to be good; so she took up her book, and began to +learn with all her might. + +Elizabeth would have thought it much more like a little girl in a book to +have done no lessons, but have sat thinking, and perhaps reading the +Bible all day; but on the whole Elizabeth had hardly thoughts enough to +last her so long; nor was she deep or serious enough to have done herself +much good by keeping the Bible open before her. In fact she did lose her +verse in merely reading the chapter for the day! So it was just as well +that she had something to do that was not play, and that was a duty, and +thus might give the desire to be good something to bear upon. + +But Christabel saw by Susan’s face, and heard in the shaken voice with +which she took her turn in the reading, that she could not have given her +mind to her tasks, and did not need them to keep her out of mischief. It +would have been cruel to have required her to sit down to them just then, +and her governess was glad to be able to excuse her on account of the +packing-up. All her things and Sam’s must be got ready in case of an +immediate start, and she was sent up to the nursery to take care of the +little ones, while Nurse and Mary mended, ironed, and packed. + +To be sure Nurse Freeman made poor Susan unnecessarily unhappy by being +sure that it was all the fault of the London doctors; but she was a kind, +tender old woman, and her petting was a great comfort to the poor girl. +What did her most good, however, was sitting quite quiet with the little +ones while they were asleep, and all alone; it seemed to rest and compose +her, and she always loved to be in charge of them. Poor child! she might +soon have to be their little mother! She was able to play with them when +they awoke, and cheered herself up with their pretty ways, and by finding +how quickly Baby was learning to walk. Ah! but would Mamma ever see her +walk? + +If any of the children thought it unjust that Susan’s lessons should be +let off, they were wrong. Parents and teachers must have the power of +doing such things without being judged. Sometimes they see that a child +is really unable to learn, when the others perceive no difference; and it +would be very harsh and cruel to oppress one who is out of order for fear +little silly, idle, healthy things should think themselves hardly used. + +At any rate, the lessons were capitally done; and when the children met +again, they were all so much brighter and more hopeful, that they quite +believed that their Mamma was going to get better very fast. Bessie +especially was so resolved that thus it should be, that she shut herself +into Miss Fosbrook’s room, and drew and painted with all her might, as if +preparing for Mamma’s birthday made it certain that it would be kept. + +The boys brought word that they would have a holiday the next day, as it +was the Feast of St. Barnabas, and after morning service Mr. Carey was +going to meet his brother and bring him home. + +“I shall be all the more certain to get the sovereign, or two +sovereigns,” said Henry to David, the only person whom he could find to +listen to him, “if Sam is gone; and everyone will be caring about me.” + +“And then you’ll give it to the pig,” said David. + +“Oh yes, to be sure. You will grow into a pig yourself if you go on that +way, David.” + +However, David, partaking the family distrust of Hal’s birds-in-the-bush, +and being started on the subject of the hoard, ran up to Sam, who was +learning his lessons by way of something to do, and said, “If you go to +London, Sam, may I have your sixpence on Monday for the pig?” + +“I don’t know that I am going.” + +“But if you do—or we sha’n’t get the pig.” + +“I don’t care.” + +“Don’t you care if we don’t get the pig?” + +“No. Be off with you.” + +David next betook himself to his eldest sister, who was trying to write +to her father, and finding such a letter harder and sadder work than that +to Ida Greville, though no one teased her about writing, blots, or +spelling. + +“If you go to London, Susie,” said he, in the very same words, “may I +have your sixpence on Monday for the pig?” + +“Oh, Davie, don’t be tiresome!” + +David only said it over again in the same words, and put his hand down on +her letter in his earnestness. + +“Come away, Davie,” said Miss Fosbrook; “don’t tease your sister.” + +“I want her to say I may have her sixpence on Monday for the pig.” + +“No, you sha’n’t, then,” said Susan angrily; “you care for the nasty pig +more than for poor Mamma or anyone else, and you sha’n’t have it.” + +So seldom did Susan say anything cross, that everyone looked up +surprised. Miss Fosbrook saw that it was sheer unhappiness that made her +speak sharply, and would not take any notice, except by gently taking +away the pertinacious David. + +He was very much distressed at the refusal; and when Miss Fosbrook told +him that his brother and sister could not think of such things when they +were in such trouble, he only answered, “But Hannah Higgins won’t get her +pig.” + +Miss Fosbrook was vexed herself that her friend David should seem +possessed with this single idea, as if it shut out all others from his +mind. He was consoled fast enough; for Susan, with another great sob, +threw down her pen, and coming up to stroke him down with her inky +fingers, cried out, “O Davie, Davie, I didn’t mean it; I don’t know why I +said it. You shall have my sixpence, or anything! But, oh dear, I wish +the message was come, and we were going to dear Mamma, for I can’t write, +and I don’t know what to do.” + +Then she went back to her place, and tried to write, and sat with her +head on her hand, and dawdled and cried and blotted till it grew so near +post-time that at last Miss Fosbrook took the longest of her scrawls, and +writing three lines at the bottom to say how it was with them all, +directed it to Captain Merrifield, thinking that he would like it better +than nothing from home, sent it off, and made Susan come out to refresh +her hot eyes and burning head in the garden. + +Sam presently came and walked on her other side, gravely and in silence, +glad to be away from the chatter and disputes of the younger ones. That +summons had made them both feel older, and less like children, than ever +before; but they did not speak much, only, when they sat down on a garden +bench, as Miss Fosbrook held Susan’s hand, she presently found some rough +hard young fingers stealing into her own on the other side, and saw Sam’s +eyes glistening with unshed tears. She stroked his hand, and they +dropped fast: but he was ashamed to cry, and quickly dried them. + +“I think,” she said, “that you will be a man, Sam; take care of Susan, +and be a comfort to your father.” + +“I hope I shall,” said Sam; “but I don’t know how.” + +“Nobody can tell how beforehand,” she said. “Only watch to see what he +may seem to want to have done for him. Sit quietly by, and don’t get in +the way.” + +“Were you ever so unhappy, Miss Fosbrook?” asked Susan. + +“Yes, once I was, when my father was knocked down by an omnibus, and was +very ill.” + +“Tell us about it?” said Susan. + +She did tell them of her week of sorrow and anxious care of the younger +children, and the brightening ray of hope at last. It seemed to freshen +both up, and give them hopes, for each drew a long sigh of relief; and +then Sam said, “Papa wrote to Mr. Carey. She is to be prayed for in +church to-morrow.” + +“Oh,” said Susan, with a sound as of dismay, which made Christabel ask in +wonder why she was sorry, when, from Susan’s half-uttered words, she +found that the little girl fancied that a “happy issue out of all her +afflictions” meant death. + +“Oh no, my dear,” she said. “What it means is, that the afflictions may +end happily in whatever way God may see to be best; it may be in getting +well; it may be the other way: at any rate, it is asking that the +distress may be over, not saying how.” + +“Isn’t there some other prayer in the Prayer-book about it?” said Sam, +looking straight before him. + +“I will show you where to find it, in the Visitation of the Sick. I dare +say it has often been read to her.” + +The boy and girl came in with her, and brought their Prayer-books to her +room, that she might mark them. + +This had been a strange, long, sad day of waiting and watching for the +telegram, and the children even fancied it might come in the middle of +the night; but Miss Fosbrook thought this unlikely, and looked for the +morrow’s post. There was no letter. It was very disappointing, but Miss +Fosbrook thought it a good sign, since at least the danger could not be +more pressing, and delay always left room for hope. + +The children readily believed her; they were too young to go on dwelling +long on what was not in sight; and even Susan was cheerful, and able to +think about other things after her night’s rest, and the relief of not +hearing a worse account. + +The children might do as they pleased about going to church on saints’ +days, and on this day all the three girls wished to go, as soon as it had +been made clear that even if the message should come before the short +service would be over, there would be ample time to reach the station +before the next train. Miss Fosbrook was glad to prove this, for not +only did she wish to have them in church, but she thought the weary +watching for the telegram was the worst thing possible for Susan. Sam +was also going to church, but Henry hung back, after accompanying them to +the end of the kitchen-garden. “I wouldn’t go, Sam; just suppose if the +message came without anyone at home, and you had to set out at once!” + +“We couldn’t,” said Sam; “there’s no train.” + +“Oh, but they always put on a special train whenever anyone is ill.” + +“Then there would be plenty!” + +“At least they did when Mr. Greville’s mother was ill, so they will now; +and then you may ride upon the engine, for there won’t be any carriages, +you know. I say, Sam, if you go to church, and the telegraph comes, I +shall set off.” + +“You’ll do no such thing,” said Sam. “You had much better come to +church.” + +“No, I sha’n’t. It is like a girl to go to church on a week-day.” + +“It is much more like a girl to mind what a couple of asses, like the +Grevilles, say,” returned Sam, taking up his cap and running after his +sisters and their governess. + +“It is quite right,” observed Henry to John and David, who alone remained +to listen to him, “that one of us should stay in case the telegraph comes +in, and there are any orders to give. I can catch the pony, you know, +and ride off to Bonchamp, and if the special train is there, I shall get +upon the engine.” + +“But it is Sam and Susan who are going.” + +“Oh, that’s only because Sam is eldest. I know Mamma would like to have +me much better, because I don’t walk hard like Sam; and when I get there, +she will be so much better already, and we shall be all right; and +Admiral Penrose will be so delighted at my courage in riding on the +engine and putting out the explosion, or something, that he will give me +my appointment as naval cadet at once, and I shall have a dirk and a +uniform, and a chest of my own, and be an officer, and get promoted for +firing red-hot shot out of the batteries at Gibraltar.” + +“Master Hal!” exclaimed Purday, “don’t throw them little apples about.” + +“They are red-hot shot, Purday!” + +“I’ll red-hot shot you if you break my cucumber frames, young gentleman! +Come, get out with you.” + +Probably anxiety made Purday cross as well as everyone else, or else he +distrusted Henry’s discretion without Sam, for he hunted the little boys +away wherever they went. Now they would break the cucumber frames; now +they would meddle with the gooseberries, or trample on the beds; and at +last he only relented so far as to let David stay with him on condition +of being very good, and holding the little cabbages as he planted them +out. + +“Master Davie was a solemn one,” Purday said, and they were great +friends; but Hal and Johnnie were fairly turned out, as their idle hands +were continually finding fresh mischief to do in their sauntering +desultory mood. + +“I think,” said Hal, “since Purday is so savage, we’ll go and look out at +the gate, and then we shall see if the telegraph comes.” + +Johnnie had no clear idea what a telegraph was, and was curious to know +how it would come, rather expecting it to be a man in a red coat on +horseback, blowing a horn—a sight that certainly was not to be missed; so +he willingly strolled down after Henry to the gate leading to the lane. + +“I can’t see any way at all,” said Henry, looking out into the lane. “I +shall get up, and so see over into the bend of the road;” and Hal mounted +to the topmost bar of the gate, and sat astride there, John scrambling +after him not quite so easily, his legs being less long, and his dress +less convenient. Both knew that their Papa strongly objected to their +climbing on this iron gate, the newest and handsomest thing about the +place; but thought Hal, “Of course no one will care what I do when I am +so anxious about poor Mamma!” and thought Johnnie, “What Hal does, of +course I may do!” + +So there the two young gentlemen sat perched, each with one leg on either +side of the new iron gate. It was rather like sitting on the edge of a +knife; and John could scarcely reach his toes down to rest them on the +bar below, but he held on by the spikes, and it was so new and glorious a +position, that it made up for a good deal to be five feet above the road; +moreover, Hal said it was just like the mast-head of a man-of-war—at +_least_, when the waves didn’t dash right overhead, like the picture of +the Eddystone Lighthouse. + +“Hollo! what, a couple of cherubs aloft!” cried a voice from the road; +and looking round, Henry beheld the two Grevilles. + +“Yes,” he answered; “it’s very jolly up here.” + +“Eh! is it? Riding on a razor, to my mind. Come down, and have a lark,” +said Osmond; while Martin, undoing the gate, proceeded to swing it +backwards and forwards, to John’s extreme terror; but the more he clung +to the spikes, and cried for mercy, the quicker Martin swung it, shouting +with laughter at his fright. Henry meanwhile scrambled and tumbled to +the ground, and caught the gate and held it fast, while he asked what his +friends had been about. One held up a scarlet flask of powder, the other +a bag of shot. + +“You haven’t got a gun!” + +“No, but we know where gardener keeps his; and the governor’s out for the +day. Come along, Hal: you shall have your turn.” + +“I don’t want to go far from home to-day.” + +“Oh, stuff! What was it Mamma heard, Osmond? That your mother was ever +so much better, wasn’t it?” + +“I thought it was worse,” said Osmond. + +“Well, never mind: your hanging about here won’t do her any good, I +suppose.” + +“No; but—” + +“Oh, he’ll catch it from the governess!—I say, how many seams shall you +have to sew to-day, Hal?” + +“I don’t sew seams: I do as I please.” + +“Ha! Is that them coming out of church!” + +“Oh, it is! it is!” cried John from his elevation. “Oh, help me down, +Hal!” + +But Henry did not want Miss Fosbrook to find him partaking in +gate-climbing; and either that desire, or the general terror a bad +conscience, made him and the Grevilles run helter-skelter the opposite +way, leaving poor little John stuck on the top of the gate, quite giddy +at the thought of coming down alone, and almost as much afraid of being +there caught by Miss Fosbrook coming home from church. + +It was a false alarm after all, that the congregation were coming out. +John would have been glad if they had; for nothing could be more +miserable than sitting up there, his fingers tired of clutching the +spikes, his feet strained with reaching down to the bar, his legs chilled +with the wind, his head almost giddy when he thought of climbing down. +He would have cried, could he have spared a hand to rub his eyes with; he +had a great mind to have roared for help, especially when he heard feet +upon the road; but these turned out to belong to five little village +boys, still smaller than himself, who, when they saw the young gentleman +on his perch, all stood still in a row, with their mouths wide open, +staring at him. Johnnie scorned to let them think he was not riding +there for his own pleasure; so he tried to put a bold face of the matter, +and look as much at ease and indifferent as he could, under great bodily +fear and discomfort, the injury of his brother’s desertion, the +expectation of disgrace, and the reflection that he was being disobedient +to his parents in the height of their trouble! + +There is nothing in grief that of necessity makes children or grown +people good. Sometimes, especially when there is suspense, it fills them +with excitement, as well as putting them out of their usual habits; and +thus it often happens that there are tremendous explosions of naughtiness +just when some one is ill in a house, and the children ought to be most +good. But it is certain that unless trouble be taken in the right way, +it makes people worse instead of better. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +HAL had got into a mood in which he was tired of fears and of waiting for +tidings, and was glad to shake off the thought, and be carried along to +something new, he and the Grevilles were rather fond of one another’s +company, in an idle sort of way. They “put him up to things,” as he +said; they made a variety; and he was always glad of listeners to his +wonderful stories, which rather diverted the other boys, who, though they +sometimes made game of them, were much less apt to pick them to pieces +than was Sam. + +Poor Captain Merrifield! what had not befallen him, according to his son? +He had been stuck on to a rock of loadstone; he had been bitten by +mosquitos as big as jackdaws—at least as jack-snipes; he had sat down to +rest on the trunk of a fallen tree, and it whisked him over on his face, +and turned out to be a rattle-snake—at least, a boa-constrictor! Nay, +Henry discoursed on the ponies he had himself tamed, the rabbits he had +shot, the trees he had climbed, the nests he had found, the rats he had +killed, in terms he durst not use when his brother was by; or if he did, +and Sam brought him to book, he always said “it was all fun.” It often +seemed as if he did not himself know whether he meant to be believed or +otherwise; and as to his intentions for his sailor life, they were, as +has been already seen, of the most splendid character! Sometimes he shot +the French admiral dead from the mast-head; sometimes he sailed into +Plymouth with the whole enemy’s fleet behind him; sometimes he, the +youngest midshipman, rescued the whole crew in a wreck where all the +other officers were drowned; sometimes he shot a shark through the head, +just as it was about to make a meal of Prince Alfred! + +He certainly was thus an entertaining companion to those who did not pay +heed to truth, and liked to hear or laugh at great swelling words; and +the Grevilles, on their idle day, were glad to have him with them, and +were rather curious to prove how much fact there was in his boast of +being a most admirable shot. + +Meddling with guns was absolutely forbidden to all the three, except by +special permission and with an elder looking on; but the Grevilles were +not in the habit of obeying, except when they were forced to do so; and +Henry, having once begun to think no one would heed his present doings, +was ready to go on rather than be accused of minding his governess. + +So the gardener’s gun was taken from the hiding-place, whither it had +been conveyed from the tool-house; and the three boys ran off together, +their first object being to get out of the Greville grounds, where they +could be met by any of the men. They got quite out into the fields, +before they ventured to stop that Osmond might load the gun. Each was to +take a shot in turn; Osmond tried first, at a poor innocent young thrush, +newly come out for his earliest flight. Happily he missed it; Martin +claimed the next, and for want of anything better to shoot, took aim at +the scare-crow in the middle of Farmer Grice’s beans. He was sure that +he had hit it, and showed triumphantly the great holes in its hat; but +the other boys were strongly persuaded that they had been there before. + +“Well, come away,” said Osmond; “this is a great deal too near old +Grice’s farm-yard. If we go popping about here, we shall have him out +upon us, for an old tiger as he is!” + +“Come along, then,” said Martin. + +But Hal had just got the gun, and saw something so black and shiny +through the hedge, that he was persuaded that a flock of rooks were +feeding in the next field, and he fired! + +Such a cackling and screeching as arose! and with it one dying gobble, +and a very loud “Hollo! you rascal!” + +“My eyes! you’ve been and gone and done it!” cried Osmond. + +“Cut! cut!” screamed Martin; and Hal, not exactly knowing what he had +done, but sure that it was something dreadful, and hearing voices in +pursuit, threw down the gun, and took to his heels; but the others had +the start of him, and were over the gap long before he could get to it. +And even as he did reach it, a hand was on his throat, almost choking +him, and a tremendous voice cried, “You young poacher, you sha’n’t get +off that way! I’ll have you up to the Bench, that I will, for shooting +the poor old turkey-cock before my very eyes.” + +“Oh! don’t, don’t! I didn’t mean it,” cried Hal, turning in the terrible +grip; “I thought it was only a rook!” + +“A rook, I dare say! And what business had you to think, coming +trespassing here on my ground, and breaking the hedges! I’d have you up +for that, if for nothing else, you young vagabond!” + +“Oh, don’t, don’t! I’m Henry Merrifield!” + +“I don’t care if you’re Henry Merry Andrew!” said Farmer Grice, who was a +surly man, and had a grudge of long standing against the Captain, for +withstanding him at the Board of Guardians. “I’ll have the law out of +you, whoever you are.” + +“But—but—Mamma is so very ill!” cried Hal, bursting into tears. + +“The more shame for you to be rampaging about the country this fashion,” +said the farmer, giving him a shake that seemed to make all his bones +rattle in his skin. “Serve you right if I flogged you within an inch of +your life.” + +“Oh, please don’t—I mean please do—anything but have me up to the +magistrates! I’ll never do it again, never!” sobbed Henry in his terror. + +Mr. Grice had some pity, and also knew that his wife and all the +neighbours would be shocked at his prosecuting so young a boy, whose +parents were in such distress. So he said, “There, then, I’ll overlook +it this time, sir, so as I have the value of the bird.” + +“And what is the value—” asked Henry, trembling. + +“Value! Why, the breed came from Norfolk; he was three years old; and my +missus set great store on him, he was as good as a house-dog, to keep +idle children out of the yard; and it was quite a picture to see him +posturing about, and setting up his tail! Value! not less than +five-and-twenty shillings, sir.” + +“But I have not five-and-twenty shillings. I can’t get them,” said Hal, +falling back into misery. + +“You should have thought of that before you shot poor old Tom Turkey!” +quoth Farmer Grice. + +“But what in the world shall I ever do?” said Henry. + +“That’s for you to settle, sir,” said the farmer, taking up the unlucky +gun. “I shall take this, and keep it out of further harm.” + +“Oh pray, pray!” cried Henry. “It is not my gun; it is Mr. Greville’s; +please let me have it!” + +“What! was it those young dogs, the Master Grevilles, that were with +you!” growled Mr. Grice. “If I’d known that, I’d not have let you off so +easy. Those boys are the plague of the place; I wish it had been one of +them as I’d caught, I’d have had some satisfaction out of them!” + +Henry entreated again for the gun, explaining that they had not leave to +take it; but the farmer was unrelenting. He might go to them, he said, +to make up the price of the poor turkey-cock; how they could have got the +gun was no affair of his; have it they should not, till the money was +brought to him; and if it did not come before night, he should carry the +gun up to the Park, and complain to Mr. Greville. + +With this answer the unhappy Hal was released, and ran after his friends +to tell them of the terms. He found them sitting on a low wall, just +within their own grounds, waiting to hear what had become of him. When +he had told his story, they both set upon him for betraying them, and +declared that they should send him to Coventry ever after, and never do +anything with him again; but as it was plain that the gun must be +redeemed, if they wished to avoid severe punishment, there was a +consultation. Nobody had much money; but Osmond consolingly suspected +that the farmer would take less; five-and-twenty shillings was an +exorbitant price to set on a turkey-cock’s head, and perhaps half would +content him. + +The half, however, seemed as impossible as the whole. Osmond had three +shillings, Martin two, Hal fourpence! What was to be done? And the boys +declared that if it should come to their father’s knowledge, Hal, who had +given up their names, should certainly not be shielded by them. In fact, +he, who had done the deed, was the only one who ought to pay. + +The sound of the servants’ dinner-bell at the Park broke up the +consultation; the boys must not be missed at luncheon; and they therefore +separated, agreeing to meet at that same place at four o’clock, to hear +the result of Hal’s negotiation with the farmer; for neither of the +Grevilles would hear of helping him to face the enemy. + +Poor Hal plodded home disconsolately. Once he thought of telling Sam, +and asking his help; but Sam would be so much shocked at such a scrape at +such a time, as possibly to lick him for it before helping him. Indeed +Hal did not see much chance of Sam being able to do anything for them; +and he had too often boasted over his elder brother to like to abase +himself by such a confession—when, too, it would almost be owning how +much better it would have been to have followed Sam’s advice and have +gone safely to church. + +Could he borrow of any one? Had he nothing of his own to sell or +exchange? Ah! if it had not been for that stupid hoard of little +David’s, he might have had even so much! By-the-bye, some of that +collection was his own. He might quite lawfully take that back again. +How much could it be? How much did he put in last week? the week before? +Oh, never mind; some of it was his at all events; there was no harm in +taking that. Most likely he should be able to restore it four-fold when +Colonel Carey made his present; or, if not, nobody knew exactly what was +in Toby Fillpot; and after all very likely they would forget all about +it; people could not think about pigs when Mamma was ill; or, maybe, he +should go to join his ship, and hear no more of it. So he came home, and +crossed the paddock just as the dinner-bell was ringing, opening the +hall-door as the children were running across it to the dining-room. + +Miss Fosbrook, who was walking behind them, turned as he came in. + +“Henry,” she said, “I have sent Johnnie to dine in the nursery, for his +disobedience in climbing the gate. I certainly shall not give you a less +punishment. You must have led him into it; and how could you be so cruel +as to leave the poor little fellow alone in such a dangerous place?” + +“Stupid little coward! it was not a bit of danger!” said Hal. + +“So young a child—” began Miss Fosbrook. + +“Oh, that’s all your London notions,” said Hal. “Why, I climbed up our +gate at Stonehouse, which was twice as high, when I wasn’t near as old as +that!” + +“I am not going to argue with you, Henry; but after such an act of +disobedience, I cannot allow you to sit down to dinner with us. Go up to +the school-room, and Mary shall bring you your dinner.” + +“I’m sure I don’t want to dine with a lot of babies and governesses!” +exclaimed Henry, and bounced up-stairs, leaving Miss Fosbrook quite +confounded at such an outbreak of naughtiness. + +She intended, as soon as dinner should be over, to go up to him, and try +to lead him to be sorry for his conduct, and to think what a wretched +moment this was for such audacity; and then she feared that she ought to +punish him farther, by keeping him in all the afternoon. He was so soft +and easily impressed, that she almost trusted to make him feel that it +would be right that he should suffer for his misconduct. + +When she went up-stairs, almost as soon as grace had been said, he was +gone. Nobody could find him, and calling produced no answer. She became +quite distressed and anxious, but could not go far from the house +herself, nor send Sam, in case the message should arrive. + +“Oh,” said Sam, “no doubt he’s after something with the Grevilles, and +was afraid you would stop him in.” + +She tried to believe this, but still felt far from satisfied all the +afternoon, and was glad to see the boy come back in time for tea. + +He said he had been with the Grevilles; he did not see why anybody need +ask him questions; he should do what he pleased without being called to +account. Nobody told him not to run away after dinner; he was not going +to stay to be ordered about for nothing. + +This was so bad a temper, that Christabel could not bear to try to touch +him with the thought of his sick mother. She knew that softening must +come in time, and believed the best thing to do at the moment would be to +put a stop to his disrespectful speeches to her, and his cross ones to +his brothers and sisters, by sending him to bed as soon as tea was over, +as the completion of his punishment. He did not struggle, for she had +taught him to mind her; but he went up-stairs with a gloomy brow, and +angry murmurs that it was very hard to be put under a stupid woman, who +knew nothing about anything, and was always cross. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +SATURDAY’S post brought a letter, and a comfortable one. All Thursday +Mrs. Merrifield had been in so doubtful a state, that her husband could +not bear to write, lest he should fill the children with false hopes, or +alarm them still more; but she had had a good night, was stronger on +Friday, and when the post went out, the doctors had just ventured to say +they believed she would recover favourably. The letter was finished off +in a great hurry; but Captain Merrifield did not forget to thank his +little Susan warmly for her poor scrambling letter, and say he knew all +she meant by it, bidding her give Miss Fosbrook his hearty thanks for +forwarding it, and for telling him the children were all behaving well, +and feeling properly. His love to them all; they must try to deserve the +great mercy that had been granted to them. + +To the children, this was almost as good as saying that their mother was +well again; but there was too much awe about them for their joy to show +itself noisily. Susan ran away to her own room, and Bessie followed her; +and Sam said no word, only Miss Fosbrook remarked that he did not eat two +mouthfuls of breakfast. She would not take any notice; she knew his +heart was full; and when she looked round on that little flock, and +thought of the grievous sorrow scarcely yet averted from them, she could +hardly keep the tears from blinding her. They were all somewhat still +and grave, and it was too happy a morning to be broken into by the +reproofs that Henry deserved, even more richly than Christabel knew. She +had almost forgotten his bad behaviour; and when she remembered something +of it, she could not but hope that silence, on such a day as this, might +bring it home to him more than rebuke. Yet when breakfast was ever, he +was among the loudest of those who, shaking off the strange, awed gravity +of deep gladness, went rushing together into the garden, feeling that +they might give way to their spirits again. + +Sam shouted and whooped as if he were casting off a burthen, and picking +little George up in his arms, tossed him and swung him round in the air +in an ecstasy; while John and Annie and David went down on the grass +together, and tumbled and rolled one over the other like three kittens, +their legs and arms kicking about, so that it was hard to tell whose +property were the black shoes that came wriggling into view. + +Susan was quieter. She told Nurse the good news, and then laid hold upon +Baby, and carried her off into the passage to hug all to herself. She +could tell no one but Baby how very happy she was, and how her heart had +trembled at her mother’s suffering, her father’s grief, and at the +desolateness that had so nearly come on them. Oh, she was very happy, +very thankful; but she could not scream it out like the others, Baby must +have it all in kisses. + +“Christabel,” said a little voice, when all the others were gone, “I +shall never be pipy again.” + +“You must try to fight against it, my dear.” + +“Because,” said Elizabeth, coming close up to her, “when dear Mamma was +so ill, it did seem so silly to mind about not having pretty things like +Ida, and the boys plaguing, and so on.” + +“Yes, my dear; a real trouble makes us ashamed of our little +discontents.” + +“I said so many times yesterday, and the day before, that I would never +mind things again, if only Mamma would get well and come home,” said the +little girl; “and I never shall.” + +“You will not always find it easy not to mind,” said Christabel; “but if +you try hard, you will learn how to keep from showing that you mind.” + +“Oh!” said Elizabeth, (and a great mouthful of an oh! it was,) “those +things are grown so silly and little now.” + +“You have seen them in their true light for once, my dear. And now that +you have so great cause of thankfulness to God, you feel that your +foolish frets and discontents were unthankful.” + +“Yes,” said Bessie, her eyes cast down, as they always were when anything +of this kind was said to her, as if she did not like to meet the look +fixed on her. + +“Well then, Bessie, try to make the giving up of these murmurs your +thank-offering to God. Suppose every day when you say your prayers, you +were to add something like this—” and she wrote down on a little bit of +paper, “O Thou, who hast raised up my mother from her sickness, teach me +to be a thankful and contented child, and to guard my words and thoughts +from peevishness.” + +“Isn’t it too small to pray about?” said Elizabeth. + +“Nothing is too small to pray about, my dear. Do you think this little +midge is too small for God to have made it, and given it life, and spread +that mother-of-pearl light on its wings? Do you think yourself too small +to pray? or your fault too small to pray about?” + +Elizabeth cast down her eyes. She did not quite think it was a fault, +but she did not say so. + +“Bessie, what was the great sin of the Israelites in the wilderness?” + +The colour on her cheek showed that she knew. + +“They tempted God by murmurs,” said Christabel. “They tried His patience +by grumbling, when His care and blessings were all round them, and by +crying out because all was not just as they liked. Now, dear Bessie, God +has shown you what a real sorrow might be; will it not be tempting Him to +go back to complaints over what He has ordained for you?” + +“I shall net complain now; I shall not care,” said Elizabeth. But she +took the little bit of paper, and Christabel trusted that she would make +use of it, knowing that in this lay her hope of cure; for whatever she +might think in this first joy of relief, her little troubles were sure to +seem quite as unbearable while they were upon her as if she had never +feared a great one. + +However, nothing remarkable happened; everyone was bright and happy; but +still the influence of their past alarm subdued them enough to make them +quiet and well-behaved, both on Saturday and Sunday; and Miss Fosbrook +had never had so little trouble with them. + +In consideration of this, and of the agitation and unsettled state that +had put the last week out of all common rules, she announced on Monday +morning that she would excuse all the fines, and that all the children +should have their allowance unbroken. Maybe she was moved to this by the +suspicion that these four sixpences and three threepennies would make up +the fund to the price of a “reasonable pig;” and she thought it time that +David’s perseverance should be rewarded, and room made in his mind for +something beyond swine and halfpence. + +Her announcement was greeted by the girls with eager thanks, by the boys +with a tremendous “Three times three for Miss Fosbrook!” and Bessie was +so joyous, that instead of crying out against the noise, she joined in +with Susan and Annie; but they made such a ridiculous little squeaking, +that Sam laughed at them, and took to mocking their queer thin hurrahs. +Yet even this Elizabeth could bear! + +David was meanwhile standing by the locker, his fingers at work as if he +were playing a tune, his lips counting away, “Ninety-two, ninety-three, +ninety-four—that’s me; ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven—that’s +Jack,” and so on; till having plodded up diligently, he turned round with +a little scream, “One hundred and twenty! That’s the pig!” + +“What?” cried Annie. + +“One hundred and twenty pence. Sukey said one hundred and twenty pence +were ten shillings. That will do it! That’s the pig! Oh, we’ve done +it! May I take it to Purday?” + +“It was to be let alone till fair-day, you little bother!” said Hal. + +“No, no, no,” cried many voices; “only till we had enough.” + +“And I am sure nobody knows if we have,” added Hal hotly. “A lot of +halfpence, indeed!” + +“But I know, Hal,” insisted David. “There are eighty-nine pence and one +farthing in Toby Fillpot, and this makes one hundred and twenty-two pence +and one farthing.” + +“You’d no business to peep,” said Sam. + +“I didn’t peep,” said David indignantly. “There were forty-eight pence +at first, and then Susie had three, that was fifty-one—” And he would +have gone on like a little calculating machine, with the entire reckoning +in his head, if the others had had patience to hear; but Annie and +Johnnie were urgent to have the sum counted out before their eyes. Hal +roughly declared it was against the rules, and little inquisitives must +not have their way. But others were also inquisitive; and Sam said it +would be best to know how much they had, that Purday might be told to +look out for a pig at the price; besides, he wanted to have it over; it +was such a bore not to have any money. + +“It’s not fair!” cried Henry passionately. “You don’t keep the rules! +You sha’n’t have my sixpence, I can tell you; and I won’t—I won’t stay +and see it.” + +“Nobody wants you,” said Sam. + +“I didn’t know there were any rules,” said the girls; but Hal was already +off. + +“Hal has only put in fivepence-halfpenny,” said David, “so no wonder he +is ashamed. Such a big boy, with sixpence a week! But if he won’t let +us have his sixpence now—” + +“Never mind, we will make it up next week,” said Susan. + +“Now, then, who will take Toby down?” said Miss Fosbrook, unbuttoning one +glass door, and undoing the two bolts of the second, behind which the cup +of money stood. + +“Susie ought, because she is the eldest.” + +“Davie ought, because he is the youngest.” + +David stood on a chair to take Toby off his shelf. Solemn was the face +with which the little boy lifted the mug by the handle, putting his other +hand to steady the expected weight of coppers; but there was at once a +frown, a little cry of horror. Toby came up so light in his hand, that +all his great effort was thrown away, and only made him stagger back in +dismay, falling backward from the chair, and poor Toby crashing to pieces +on the floor as he fell, while out rolled—one solitary farthing! + +Nobody spoke for some moments; but all stood perfectly still, staring as +hard as if they hoped the pence would be brought out by force of looking +for them. + +Then David’s knuckles went up into his eyes, and he burst forth in a loud +bellow. It was the first time Miss Fosbrook had heard him cry, and she +feared that he had been hurt by the fall, or cut by the broken crockery; +but he struck out with foot and fist, as if his tears were as much anger +as grief, and roared out, “I want the halfpence for my pig.” + +“Sam, Sam,” cried Susan, “if you have hid them for a trick, let him have +them.” + +“I—I play tricks _now_?” exclaimed Sam in indignation. “No, indeed!” + +“Then perhaps Hal has,” said Elizabeth. + +“For shame, Bessie!” cried Sam. + +“I only know,” said Elizabeth, half in self-defence, half in fright, +“that one of you must have been at the baby-house, for I found the doors +open, and shut them up.” + +“And why should it be one of us?” demanded Sam; while David stopped +crying, and listened. + +“Because none of the younger ones can reach to undo the doors,” said +Elizabeth. “It was as much as I could do to reach the upper bolt, though +I stood upon a chair.” + +This was evident; for the baby-house was really an old-fashioned bureau, +and below the glass doors there was a projecting slope of polished +walnut, upon which only a fly could stand, and which was always locked. +No one whose years were less than half a score was tall enough to get a +good hold of the button, even from the highest chair, far less to jerk +down the rather stiff upper bolt. + +“It cannot have been a little one, certainly,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but +you should not be so ready to accuse your brothers, Bessie.” + +David, however, had laid hold of a hope, and getting up from the floor, +hastened out of the room, followed by John; and they were presently heard +shouting “Hal!” all over the house. + +“What day was it that you found the door open, Bessie?” asked Miss +Fosbrook. + +“It was just after dinner,” said Elizabeth, recollecting herself. + +“It was on Friday. Yes, I remember it was Friday, because I went into +the school-room to get my pencil, and I was afraid Hal would jump out +upon me, and looked in first to see whether he was going to be tiresome; +but he was gone.” + +“Yes,” said Susan; “it was the day we found poor Jack stuck up on the +gate, when he and Hal were in disgrace. Oh, he never would have played +tricks then.” + +“Did you go up before me, Bessie?” asked Miss Fosbrook; “for I went up +directly after dinner to speak to Henry.” + +“Yes, I did,” said she. “I thought if you got in first, you would be +scolding him ever so long, and would let nobody in, so I would get my +pencil first; and I slipped up before you had left the table.” + +Just then the two boys were heard stumping up the stairs, and ran in, +panting with haste and excitement, David with a fiery red ear. + +“No, no; Hal didn’t hide it!” + +“But he boxed Davie’s ear for thinking he did,” added John; “and said +he’d do the same for spiteful Bet!” + +“Then he never played tricks,” said Susan. + +“I told you not,” said Sam. + +“No,” reiterated David; “and he said I’d no business to ask; and if Bet +went prying about everywhere, I’d better ask her. Have you got it, +Betty?” + +“I!” cried Elizabeth. “How can you, Davie?” + +“You have got a secret,” exclaimed David; “and you always were cross +about Hannah Higgins’s pig. You have got it to tease me! Miss Fosbrook, +make her give it back.” + +“Nonsense, David,” said Miss Fosbrook; “Bessie is quite to be trusted; +and it is wrong to make unfounded accusations.” + +“Never mind, Betty,” added Sam kindly; “if Davie wasn’t a little donkey, +he wouldn’t say such things.” + +“Where is Henry?” asked the governess. “Why did he not come himself? +Call him; I want to know if he observed this door being open.” + +“He is gone down to Mr. Carey’s,” said John. + +“And it is high time you were there too, Sam,” said Miss Fosbrook, +starting. “If you are late, beg Mr. Carey’s pardon from me, and tell him +that I kept you.” + +Sam was obliged to run off at full speed; and the other children stood +about, still aghast and excited. Miss Fosbrook, however, told them to +take out their books. She would not do anything more till she had had +time to think, and had composed their minds and her own; for she was +exceedingly shocked, and felt herself partly in fault, for having left +the hoard in an unlocked cupboard. She feared to do anything hastily, +lest she should bring suspicion on the innocent; and she thought all +would do better if time were given for settling down. All were +disappointed at thus losing the excitement, fancying perhaps that instant +search and inquiry would hunt up the money; and David put himself quite +into a sullen fit. No, he would not turn round, nor read, nor do +anything, unless Miss Fosbrook would make stingy Bet give up the pence. + +Miss Fosbrook and Susan both tried to argue with him; but he had set his +mind upon one point so vehemently, that it was making him absolutely +stupid to everything else; and he was such a little boy (only five years +old), that his mind could hardly grasp the exceeding unlikelihood of a +girl like Elizabeth committing such a theft, either in sport or earnest, +nor understand the injury of such a suspicion. He only knew that she had +a secret—a counter secret to his pig; and when she hotly assured him that +she had never touched the money, and Susan backed her up with, “There, +she says she did not,” he answered, “She once told a story.” + +Elizabeth coloured deep red, and Susan cried out loudly that it was a +shame in David; then explained that it was a long long time ago, that Hal +and Bessie broke the drawing-room window by playing at ball with little +hard apples, and had not told, but when questioned had said, “No;” but +indeed they had been so sorry then that she knew they would never do so +again. + +Again David showed that he could not enter into this, and sulkily +repeated, “She told a story.” + +“I will have no more of this,” said Christabel resolutely. “You are all +working yourselves up into a bad spirit: and not another word will I hear +on this matter till lessons are over.” + +That tone was always obeyed; but lessons did not prosper; the children +were all restless and unsettled; and David, hitherto for his age her best +scholar, took no pains, and seemed absolutely stupefied. What did he +care for fines, if the chance of the pig was gone? And he was sullenly +angry with Miss Fosbrook for using no measures to recover the money, +fancied she did not care, and remembered the foolish nursery talk about +her favouring Bessie. + +Once Miss Fosbrook heard a little gasping from the corner, and looking +round, saw poor Bessie crying quietly over her slate, and trying hard to +check herself. She would not have noticed her, though longing to comfort +her, if David had not cried out, “Bet is crying! A fine!” + +“No,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but a fine for an ill-natured speech that has +made her cry.” + +“She has got the pig’s money,” muttered David. + +“Say that again, and I shall punish you, David.” + +He looked her full in the face, and said it again. + +She was thoroughly roused to anger, and kept her word by opening the door +of a small dark closet, and putting David in till dinner-time. + +Then she and Susan both tried to soothe Bessie, by reminding her how +childish David was, how he had caught up some word that probably Hal had +flung out without meaning it, and how no one of any sense suspected her +for a moment. + +“It is so ill-natured and hard,” sobbed Bessie. “To think I could steal! +I think they hate me.” + +“Ah,” said Susan, “if you only would never be cross to the boys, Bessie, +and not keep out of what they care for, they would never think it.” + +“Yes, Susie is right there,” said Christabel. “If you try to be one with +the others, and make common cause with them, giving up and forbearing, +they never will take such things into their heads.” + +“And _we_ don’t now,” said Susan cheerily. “Didn’t you hear Sam say +nobody but a donkey could think it?” + +“But Bessie has a secret!” said Annie. + +Again stout Susan said, “For shame!” + +“I’ll tell you what my secret is,” began Bessie. + +“No,” said Susan, “don’t tell it, dear! We’ll trust you without; and Sam +will say the same.” + +Bessie flung her arms round Susan’s neck, as if she only now knew the +comfort of her dear good sister. + +Lessons were resumed; and as soon as these were done, Miss Fosbrook +resolved on a thorough search. Some strange fit of mischief or curiosity +might have actuated some one, and the money be hidden away; so she +brought David out of his cupboard, and with Susan’s help turned out every +drawer and locker in the school-room, forbidding the others to touch or +assist. They routed out queer nests of broken curiosities, disturbed old +dusty dens of rubbish, peeped behind every row of books; but made no +discovery worth mentioning, except the left leg of Annie’s last doll, the +stuffing of Johnnie’s ball, the tiger out of George’s Noah’s ark, and the +first sheet of Sam’s Latin Grammar, all stuffed together into a +mouse-hole in the skirting. + +At dinner Christabel forbade the subject to be mentioned, not only to +hinder quarrelsome speeches, but to prevent the loss being talked of +among the servants; since she feared that one of them must have committed +the theft, and though anxious not to put it into the children’s heads, +suspected Rhoda, the little nursery-girl, who was quite a child, and had +not long been in the house. + +Henry ate his dinner in haste, but could not get away till Miss Fosbrook +had called him away from the rest, and told him that if he had been +playing a trick on his little brother, it was time to put an end to it, +before any innocent person fell under suspicion. + +“I—I’ve been playing no tricks—at least—” + +“Without any _at least_, Henry, have you hidden the money?” + +“No.” + +“You dined in the school-room on Friday. Were the baby-house doors open +then!” + +“I—I’m sure I didn’t notice.” + +“You didn’t open them to take anything out?” + +“What should I want with the things in the baby-house?” + +“Did you, or did you not!” + +“I—I didn’t—at least—” + +“In one word, did you open them? yes or no.” + +“No.” + +“What time did you go out after eating your dinner?” + +“Bother! how is one to remember! It’s all nonsense making such a fuss. +The children fancied they put in ever so much more than they did, and +very likely took out some.” + +“No; David’s reckoning was accurate. I wrote down all I knew of; and I +am sure none was taken out, for early that very morning I had put in a +sixpence myself, and the cup was then full of coppers, with that little +silver threepenny of David’s with the edge turned up upon the top.” + +“Then you must have left the door undone!” said Henry delighted. + +“I dare not be positive,” said Christabel; “but I believe I remember +bolting it; and if I had not done so, it would have flown open sooner.” + +“Oh, but the wind, you know.” + +“If the doors did open, it would not account for the loss of the money.” + +“Well, I can’t help it,” said Henry ungraciously, trying to move off: but +she first required him to tell her what he had said to the younger boys +to make them suspect Elizabeth. + +“Did I?” said Henry, “I am sure I didn’t; at least, if I did, I only said +Bess peeped everywhere, and was very close. I didn’t suspect her, you +know.” + +“I should think not!” said Miss Fosbrook indignantly. “Now please to +come up with me.” + +“I want to go out,” said Henry. + +No, she would not let him go. She thought Elizabeth ought to clear +herself, so far as it could be done, by making her secret known, since +that had drawn suspicion on her; and when all the children were together, +she called the little girl and told her so. + +“It is very unkind of them,” said Bessie, with trembling lip; “but they +shall see, if they want _that_ to show I am not a thief!” + +“I said I wouldn’t see,” said Susan. “You knows Bessie, I trust you.” + +“And I,” said Sam; “I don’t care for people’s secrets. I don’t want to +pry into Bessie’s.” + +No one followed their example; all either really suspected, or else were +full of curiosity, and delighted to gratify it. + +Half a dozen slips of card, with poor little coloured drawings on them, +and as many lengths of penny ribbon! + +“Is that all?” said Annie, much disappointed. + +“So that’s what Bet made such a fuss about,” said John; and David’s face +fell, as if he had really expected to see the lost pence. + +The next thing, after the search had been made through all the children’s +bed-rooms, was to go to the nursery: and thither Miss Fosbrook allowed +only Susan and Sam to follow her. Nurse Freeman was very stiff and +stately, but she had no objection to searching; and the boy and girl +began the hunt, while Miss Fosbrook meantime cautiously asked whether +Nurse were sure of Rhoda, and if she were trustworthy. + +This made Mrs. Freeman very angry; and though her words were respectful, +she showed that she was much offended at the strange lady presuming to +suspect anyone, especially one under her charge. + +Miss Fosbrook wanted to have asked Rhoda whether the doors were open or +shut when she carried Henry his dinner, but Nurse would not consent to +call her. “I understood the nursery and the girl were to be my +province,” she said. “If Miss Merrifield heard her mamma say otherwise, +then it is a different thing.” + +Susan cowered into the dark cupboard. Nurse must be in a dreadful way to +call her Miss Merrifield, instead of Missy! + +Nothing more could be done. The pence could not be found. Nurse would +not let Rhoda be examined; and all that could be found out from the +children had been already elicited. + +Christabel could only beg that no more should be said, and, her head +aching with perplexity, hope that some light might yet be thrown on the +matter. There must be pain and grief whenever it should be explained; +but this would be far better, even for the offender, than the present +deception: and the whole family were in a state of irritation and +distrust, that hurt their tempers, and made her bitterly reproach herself +with not having prevented temptation by putting the hoard under lock and +key. + +She ordered that no more should be said about it that evening, and made +herself obeyed; but play was dull, and everything went off heavily. The +next morning, Susan came back early from her housekeeping business, with +her honest face grave and unhappy, and finding Miss Fosbrook alone, told +her she had something _really_ to say to her if she might; and this being +granted began, with the bright look of having found a capital notion: +“I’ll tell you what I wish you would do.” + +“Well?” + +“If you would call every one in all the house, and ask them on their word +and honour if they took the pence.” + +“My dear, I am not the head of the house, and I have no right to do that; +besides, I do not believe it would discover it.” + +“What! could a thief get in from out of doors!” said Susan looking at the +window. + +“Hardly that, my dear; but I am afraid a person who could steal would not +scruple to tell a falsehood, and I do not wish to cause this additional +sin.” + +“It is very horrid; I can’t bear it,” said Susan, puckering up her face +for tears. “Do you know, Miss Fosbrook, the maids are all so angry that +you said anything about Rhoda?” + +“You did not mention it, my dear?” + +“Oh no; nor Sam. It was Nurse herself! But they all say that you want +to take away her character; and they won’t have strangers put over them.” + +“Pray, Susie; don’t tell me this. It can do no good.” + +“Oh, but _please_!” cried Susan. “And then Mary—I can’t think how she +could—but she said that poor dear Bessie was always sly, and that she had +been at the cupboard, and had got the pence; but she was your favourite, +and so you vindicated her. And Nurse began teasing her to confess, and +tell the truth, and told her she was a wicked child because she would +not; but it was all because we were put under strangers! I’m sure they +do set on Johnnie and Davie to be cross to her.” + +“When was this, my dear?” + +“Last night, when we went to the nursery to be washed. It was our night, +you know. Oh! I wish Mamma was well!” + +“Indeed I do my dear. And how did poor Bessie bear it!” + +“She got quite white, and never said a word, even when they told her she +was sulky. But when we got into bed, and I kissed her and cuddled her +up, oh! she did cry so; I didn’t know what to do. So, do you know, I got +my shawl on, and went and called Sam; and he was not gone to sleep, and +he came and sat by her, and told her that he believed her, and knew she +was as sound a heart of oak as any of us; and we both petted her, and Sam +was so nice and kind, till she went to sleep. Then he went to the +nursery, and told Nurse how horrid it was in her; but Cook said it only +made her worse, because she is jealous of our taking part with you.” + +“My dear, I _do_ like to hear of your kindness to Bessie; but I wish you +would not mind what any of the maids say, nor talk to them about it. It +only distresses you for nothing.” + +“But I can’t help it,” said Susan. + +“You could not help this attack in the nursery, but you need not talk to +Cook or Mary about it. It is of no use to vex ourselves with what people +say who don’t know half a story.” + +“Can’t you tell them not?” said simple Susan. + +“No, I cannot interfere. They would only do it the more. We can only +keep Bessie as much out of the way of the maids as we can, and show our +confidence in her.” + +Certainly Elizabeth had been known to look infinitely more glum when +nothing was the matter than under all this vexation, even though the +servants were really very unkind to her; and her two little brothers both +behaved as ill as possible to her whenever they had the opportunity—David +really believing that she had made away with the money, and ought to be +tortured for it; and Johnnie taking it on his word, and being one of +those little boys who have a positive taste for ill-nature, and think it +fun. They pinched her, they bit her, they rubbed out her sums, they shut +up her lesson-books and lost her place, they put bitten crusts into her +plate, and did whatever they knew she most disliked, whenever Miss +Fosbrook or Sam was not in the way; but she never told. She did not +choose to be called a tell-tale; and besides, they really did not succeed +in making her life miserable, so much was she pleased with the real +kindness her trouble had brought out from Susan and Sam. Susan could not +prevent the persecution of the two naughty little boys, but she defended +her sister to her utmost; and Sam cuffed them if they said a word or +lifted a finger against Bessie before him; and he gave her such notice +and kindness as she never had received from him before. One afternoon, +when he was going to walk to Bonchamp, he asked leave for her to come +with him, and would take nobody else; and hot day as it was, Bessie had +never had such a charming walk. She kept herself from making one single +fuss; and in return, he gathered wild strawberries for her, showed her a +kingfisher, and took her to look in at a very grand aquarium in the +fishing-tackle maker’s window, where she saw some gold-fish, and a most +comical little newt. And going home, they had a real good talk about +their father’s voyage, and how they should get on without him; and Bessie +found to her great pleasure, that Sam hoped Miss Fosbrook would stay when +Mamma Came home. + +“For I do think she has put some sense into you, Bessie,” said Sam. + +She was so delighted, that instead of preparing to fret if Sam did but +hold up a finger at her, she looked up with a smile when he came in her +way, sure of protection, and expecting something pleasant, as well as +thinking it an honour to be asked to help him in anything. The next day, +when Mr. Carey had insisted on his verifying by the map all the towns +which he had been contented to say were in Asia Minor (where every place +in ancient history is always put if its whereabouts be doubtful), she +saved him so much time and trouble, that he got out into the garden full +half an hour earlier than he would otherwise have done. Thereupon he +told her she was a jolly good fellow, and gave her such a thump on the +back, as a few weeks ago would have made her scream and whine; but this +time she took it as a new form of thanks, and felt highly honoured by +being invited to help him to fish for minnows, though it almost made her +sick to stick the raw meat upon his hooks. + +The threatening of a true sorrow, the bearing a real trouble, and the +opening to her brother’s kindness, had done far more to make her a happy +little girl than all Miss Fosbrook’s attempts to satisfy her cravings or +please her tastes. These had indeed done her some good, and taught her +to find means of enjoyment for those likings that no one else cared for; +but it had been the _spirit_ of delight that had been chiefly wanting; +and when thankfulness and love were leading her to that, it was much +easier to see that the evening clouds or the rising moon were lovely, +than when she was looking out for affronts. + +Nothing was said in public about the loss; and Christabel hoped that the +bad impression as to Elizabeth would wear out in the young minds of the +lesser children; but David’s whole nature seemed to have been +disorganized by the disappointment. Instead of being a pattern child for +diligence and good behaviour, very fond of Miss Fosbrook, and not only +inoffensive, but often keeping John and Anne in order, he seemed +absolutely stupid and senseless at lessons, became stubborn at reproof, +seemed to take pleasure in running counter to his governess, and rendered +the other two, who, though his elders, were both of weak natures compared +with his own, more openly naughty than himself. Sometimes it seemed to +Christabel that the habit of spiting Bessie was getting so confirmed, +that it would last even when the cause was forgotten; and yet the more +she strove to put it down in sight, the more it throve out of sight; and +when she looked at David, and thought how she had once admired him, she +could not but remember the text that says, “Thy goodness is as the +morning cloud, and as the dew shall it vanish away.” She had thought it +goodness based upon religious feeling, as well as on natural gravity and +orderliness; and so perhaps it had once been, but the little fellow had +fixed his whole soul on one purpose, and though that was a good one, it +had grown into an idol, and swallowed up all his other motives, till of +late he had only been good for the sake of the pig, not because it was +right. Being disappointed of the pig, he had nothing to fall back upon, +but felt himself so ill-used, that it seemed to him that it was no use to +be good; and he revenged himself by naughtiness. + +Such sturdy strong characters as little David’s, when they are once set +on the right object, come to the very best kind of goodness; but when +they take a wrong turn, they are the very worst, both for themselves and +others. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +THE Monday after the loss of the pence was a pouring wet day. The whole +court was like a flood, and the drops went splashing up again as if in +play; Purday wore his master’s old southwester coat, and looked shiny all +over; and when the maids had to cross the court, they went click, click, +in their pattens under their umbrellas. + +But it was baking day, and Susan and Annie had been down to coax the cook +into making them a present of a handsome allowance of dough, and Miss +Fosbrook into letting them manipulate it in the school-room. Probably +this was the only way of preventing the dough from being turned into +bullets, and sent flying at each other’s eyes, or possibly plastered on +somebody’s nose, and the cook and kitchenmaid from being nearly driven +crazy. + +The dough was justly divided, and an establishment set up in each locker. +Bessie declined altogether; Sam had lent her his beautiful book of _The +British Songsters_, and she was hard at work at the table copying a +tom-tit, since she no longer carried on the work in secret; but at one +locker were the other three elders, at the other the three lesser ones, +and little George in a corner by Susan, pegging away at his own private +lump, and constantly begging for more. Susan’s ambition was to make a +set of real twists, just like Cook’s; and she pulled out and twisted and +plaited, though often robbed of her dough by the two boys, whose united +efforts were endeavouring to produce a likeness of Purday, with his hat +on his head, plums for eyes, a pipe in his mouth, and driving a cow; but +unluckily his neck always got pinched off, and his arms would not stay +on! No matter; the more moulding of that soft dough the better! Johnnie +and Annie had a whole party of white clammy serpents, always being set to +bite one another, and to melt into each other; and David was hard at work +on a brood of rabbits with currant eyes, and would let no one interfere +with him. + +“Didn’t I hear something!” asked Bessie, looking up. + +“Oh, it’s only the roller,” said Sam; “Purday always rolls on a wet day.” + +Something, however, made the whole party of little bakers hold up their +heads to listen. There was a gleam on their faces, as a quick alert step +sounded on the stairs, and Bessie, the nearest to the door, and not +cramped like the rest, who were sitting on their heels, sprang forward +and opened it with a scream of joy. + +There he was—the light, alert, weather-beaten man, with his loose wavy +hair, and bright sailor face! There was Papa! Oh, the hurly-burly of +children, tumbling up as well as they could on legs crooked under them, +and holding out great fans of floury doughy paws, all coming to be hugged +in his arms in turn, so that before he had come to the end of the eight +in presence, Bessie had had time to whisk off to the nursery, snatch Baby +up from before Nurse’s astonished eyes, rush down with her, and put her +into his arms. Baby had forgotten him, and was taken with such a fit of +screaming shyness, that Susan had to take her, and Annie to play bo-peep +with her, before she would let anyone’s voice be heard. + +“I’ve taken you by surprise, Miss Fosbrook,” said the Captain, shaking +hands with her in the midst of the clatter. + +“Oh, it is such a pleasure!” she began. “I hope you left Mrs. Merrifield +much better.” + +“Much better, much better, thank you. I hope to find her on the sofa +when I go back on Thursday. I could only run down for a few days, just +to settle things, and see the children, before I join the _Ramilies_. +Admiral Penrose very good-naturedly kept it open for me, till we could +tell how _she_ was,” said the Captain, with rather a trembling voice. + +“Then you are going! O Papa!” said Susan, looking up at him; “and Baby +will not know you till—” + +“Hold your tongue, Miss Croaker,” said the Captain, roughly but kindly; +and Miss Fosbrook could see that he was as much afraid of crying himself +as of letting Susan cry; “I’ve no time for that. I’ve got a gentleman on +business down stairs, and your Uncle John and I must go down to them +again. We sha’n’t want dinner; only, Sue, tell them to send in some eggs +and bacon, or cold meat, or whatever there may be, for tea; and get a +room ready for your uncle.” + +He would have gone, but Susan called out, “O Papa, may we drink tea with +you, Georgy and all!” + +“Yes, to be sure, if you won’t make a bear-fight, any of you, for your +uncle.” + +“Mayn’t I come down with you?” added Sam, looking at him as if he wanted +to make the most of every moment of that presence. + +“Better not, my boy,” said the Captain; “I’ve got law business to settle, +and we don’t want you. Better stay and make yourselves decent for +tea-time. Mamma’s love, and she hopes you’ll not drive Uncle John +distracted.” And he was gone. + +“Bother Uncle John!” first muttered Sam (I am sorry to say). + +“I can’t think what he’s come for,” sighed Annie. + +“To spoil our fun,” suggested Johnnie disconsolately. + +“To take Sam to school,” added Hal, “while I go to sea.” + +“You don’t know that you are going,” said Elizabeth. “Papa said nothing +about it.” + +“Oh! but I know I shall. Admiral Penrose promised.” + +“You know a great many things that don’t happen. You knew Colonel Carey +would give you two sovereigns.” + +Henry looked as if he could bite. + +“Well, I shall finish Purday,” said Sam, turning away with a sigh; “and +they shall have him for tea.” + +“Tea will be no fun!” repeated Annie. “Oh dear! what does Uncle John +come here for?” + +“May not he come to be with his brother?” suggested Christabel. + +“Oh! but they are grown up,” said Annie. + +“Can’t he have him in London, without coming here to worry us in our +little time!” added Johnnie. + +“Perhaps he will not worry you.” + +“Oh! but—” they all cried, and stopped short. + +“He plagues about manners,” said Annie. + +“He wanted Susie and me to be sent to school!” said Bessie. + +“He said it was like dining with young Hottentots.” + +“He told Papa it was disgraceful, when we had all been sliding on the +great pond in the village,” added Annie. + +“And he gave Sam a box on the ear, for only just taking a dear little +river cray-fish in his fishing-net to show Aunt Alice.” + +“The net was dripping wet,” observed Bessie. + +“Yes,” said Anne; “but Aunt Alice is so finikin and fidgety; she never +wets her feet, and can’t get over a stile, and is afraid of a cow; and he +wants us all to be like her.” + +“And he makes Papa and Mamma mind things that they don’t mind by nature,” +said Susan. + +“Mamma always tells us to be good, and never play at hockey in the house +when he’s there,” said Anne. + +“She has not told us so this time,” said John triumphantly. + +“No, but we must mind all the same,” said Susan; and Sam silenced some +independent murmurs, about not minding Uncle John, by saying it was +minding Mamma. + +Miss Fosbrook herself was a little alarmed, for she gathered that Mamma +was in some fear of this terrible uncle, that he had much influence with +his brother, and was rather a severe judge of the young family. She +sincerely hoped that he would not find things much amiss, for the honest +goodness of the two eldest had won so much regard from her, that she +could not bear them to be under any cloud; and indeed she felt as if the +whole flock were her own property, as well as her charge, and that she, +as well as they, were about to be tried. She would have felt it all fair +and just before their kindly father, but it seemed hard that all should +be brought before the school-master uncle; and she was disposed to be +tender for her children, and exceedingly anxious as to the effect they +might produce. She was resolved that the Captain should hear of the +affair of the pence; but the presence of his brother would make the +speaking a much greater effort. Meantime, she saw that all the fingers +were clean, and all the hair brushed. She flattered herself that Susan’s +yellow locks had learnt that it was the business of hair to keep tidy, +and had been much less unmanageable of late; but she had her fears that +they would ruffle up again when their owner, at the head of a large +detachment, rushed out to take the “fancy bread” out of the oven, and she +came half-way down stairs, in case it should be necessary to capture +them, and brush them over again. + +While thus watching, the door of the dining-room (the only down stairs +room in order) opened suddenly, and the Captain came forth. “Oh, Miss +Fosbrook,” he said, “please come in here: I was just coming to look for +you. My brother—Miss Fosbrook.” + +To her surprise, Miss Fosbrook received a very pleasant civil greeting +from a much younger man than she had expected to see, looking perhaps +more stern about the mouth and sharp about the eye than his elder +brother, and his clerical dress very precise; but somehow he was so +curiously like his niece, Elizabeth, that she thought that his +particularity might spring from the same love of refinement. + +“All going on well?” asked the Captain. + +“Fairly well,” she answered. “Sam and Susan are most excellent children. +There is only one matter on which I should like to speak to you, at some +time when it might suit you.” + +“Is it about this?” he said, putting into her hand a sheet written in +huge round-hand in pencil, no words misspelt, but the breaks in them at +the end of the lines perfectly regardless of syllables:— + + My dear Papa, + + Please let me + have a poli + ceman. Bet h + as got at Toby + and stole our + pence which was + for a secret. Nu + rse says she is a + favourite and Miss + Fosbrook will not + find them. + + Your affectionate son + DAVID DOUGLAS MERRIFIELD. + +“Oh! this was the letter David insisted on sealing before I put it into +mine!” exclaimed Miss Fosbrook, as soon as she had made out the words. +“We have been in great trouble at the loss; but we agreed not to write to +you, because you had so much on your mind.” + +“Is Bessie in fault?” + +“No, no; none of us believe it; but I am very anxious that you should +make an investigation, for the maids suspect her, and have made the +younger children do so.” + +“And who is Toby?” + +“Toby is only a jug—called Toby Fillpot, I believe—shaped like a man.” + +“I know!” put in Mr. John Merrifield, laughing. “Don’t you remember him, +Harry? We had the like in our time.” + +“Well?” interrogated the Captain. + +“Just after you left home,” said Christabel, as shortly and clearly as +she could, “the children agreed to save their allowance to buy a pig for +Hannah Higgins. They showed great perseverance in their object; and by +the third week they had about seven shillings in this jug, which, to my +grief and shame, I let them keep in the glass cupboard, not locked, but +one door bolted, the other buttoned. On Friday morning, the 11th, I know +the cup was full of coppers and silver, for I took it down to add +something to it. On the next Monday morning the money was gone, all but +one farthing.” + +“Can you guess who took it?” + +“I should prefer saying nothing till you have examined the children and +servants for yourself.” + +“Right!” said the Captain. “Very well.—I am sorry to treat you to a +court-martial, John, but I must hold one after tea.” + +Christabel pitied the children for having to speak before this formidable +uncle; but there could be no help for it, since no other sitting-room was +habitable, and there were torrents of rain out-of-doors. + +There was just time to show the glass cupboard, and the shelf where Toby +had stood, and to return to the dining-room, before the children began to +stream in and make their greetings to their uncle, Susan with George in +one hand, and her plate of bakings in the other. Very fancy bread indeed +it was! as Uncle John said. The edge of Purday’s hat had been quite +baked off, and one of his arms was gone; he was black in the wrong +places, and was altogether rather an uncomfortable-looking object. +David’s brood of rabbits were much more successful, though the ears of +many had fallen off. Uncle John was very much diverted, and took his +full share of admiring and tasting the various performances. On the +whole, the meal went off much better than Christabel had feared it would. +She had really broken the children of many of the habits with which they +used to make themselves disagreeable; there was no putting of spoons into +each other’s cups, nor reaching out with buttery fingers; lips were +wiped, and people sat still upon their chairs, even if they fidgeted and +sighed; and there was only one slop made all tea-time, and that was by +Johnnie, and not a very bad one. Indeed, it might be hoped that Mr. +Merrifield did not see it, for he was talking to Sam about the change of +footpath that Mr. Greville was making. There was indeed no fun, but it +might be doubted whether Papa would have been in a mood for fun even had +his brother not been there; and Miss Fosbrook was rather glad there was +nothing to make the children forgetful of propriety. + +As soon as Mary had carried off the tea-things and wiped the table, Uncle +John put himself as much out of the way as he could behind the newspaper +in the recess of the window; and Miss Fosbrook would have gone to the +school-room, but Captain Merrifield begged her to stay. + +“I hear,” he said, “that a very unpleasant thing has taken place in my +absence, and I wish to learn all that I can about it, that the guilty +person may be brought to light, and the innocent cleared from any +suspicion.” + +The children looked at one another, wondering how he had heard, or +whether Miss Fosbrook had told him; but this was soon answered by his +calling out, “David! come here, and tell me what you meant by this +letter.” + +David walked stoutly to his father’s knee, nothing daunted, though his +brothers muttered behind him, “So he wrote!” “Little sneak!” and “He knew +no better!” Not that it was wrong to lay the case before his father; but +boys had usually rather suffer injustice than make an accusation. + +“Why did you write this letter, David?” said his father. + +“Because I want my pence for the pig.” + +“Tell me how you lost them?” + +“Bess took them!” + +Elizabeth sprung up, crimson, and with tears in her eyes, and Sam and +Susan were both bursting out into an angry “No, no!” but their father +made a sign to all to keep still; and they obeyed, though each of the +elder ones took hold of a hand of their sister and squeezed it hard. + +“Did you see her take them?” asked the Captain. + +“No!” + +“Then why do you say she did? I don’t want to frighten you, David; I +only want to hear why you think she did so.” + +David was getting alarmed now, and his childish memory better retained +the impression than what had produced it. He hung down his head, scraped +one foot, and finding that he must answer, mumbled out at last, “Nurse +said it, and Hal.” + +“Henry, come here. Did you accuse your sister to David?” + +“No!” burst out Henry at once; but there was a rounding of everyone’s +mouth to cry out Oh! and he quickly added, in a hasty scared way, “At +least, when Davie came bothering me, I said he had better ask Betty, +because she had been prying about, and meddling with the baby-house. I +never meant that she had done it; but Davie is such a little jack-ass!” + +“Did you see her meddle with the baby-house!” + +“She said that herself,” muttered Henry. + +“Yes, Papa,” said Elizabeth, starting forward, “I did find the doors of +the baby-house open, and shut them up, but I never touched anything in +it! Sam and Susie know I would not, and that I would not tell a story +now, though I once did, you know, Papa!” + +Captain Merrifield still kept his grave set face, and only asked, “When +did you find the doors open?” + +“On Friday, Papa—Friday week—St. Barnabas’ Day—just after dinner.” + +“Was no one with you?” + +“No, Papa.” + +“You came up-stairs first?” + +“Yes; I wanted my pencil before—” and she stopped short. + +“Before what?” + +“Before Miss Fosbrook went in to speak to Hal,” said Elizabeth, getting +red all over. + +“Hal had been dining in the school-room,” said Miss Fosbrook, “on account +of a little bit of disobedience.” + +Captain Merrifield looked keenly at Henry, who tried to return the look, +but shuffled uncomfortably under it. + +“Then Hal had been dining in the school-room? Was he there when you came +in?” + +“No.” + +“Were the doors open when you were dining there, Henry?” + +“N—no.” + +“You are sure that you did not meddle with them?” + +“I do not know why I should,” said Henry, hastily and confusedly. “It is +only the girls and the babies that have things there—and—and Miss +Fosbrook herself had been at the cupboard in the morning; why shouldn’t +she have left it undone herself, and the doors got open?” + +“No, no!” cried Susan; “if they aren’t fastened they always burst open +directly; and we never could have been in the room half the morning +without noticing them!” + +“Then you are certain that they were closed when you went down to +dinner?” + +Everyone was positive that the great glass doors flying out must have +made themselves observed in that room full of children, especially as +Susan remembered that she had been making a desk of the sloping part +under them. + +“Does anyone remember how long it was between Hal’s leaving the room and +Bessie’s coming up?” + +“I don’t know when he went out,” said all those who had been in the +dining-room; but there spoke up a voice, quite proud of having something +to tell among the others—“I saw Hal go out, and Bessie come up directly.” + +“You, Johnnie! How was that?” + +“Miss Fosbrook made me dine in the nursery, Papa, because Hal and I had +been riding on the new iron gate, to see if the telegraph would come in +while the others were at church; and then Hal ran away with the +Grevilles, and I couldn’t get down till Sam came and helped me; and so +Miss Fosbrook made me dine in the nursery; and when I had done, I went +and sat upon the top of the garret stairs, to watch when they came out +from dinner, and ask if I might come down again.” + +“And what did you see, Johnnie?” + +“First, I saw a wasp,” said Johnnie. + +“Never mind the wasp. Did you see when Henry went out?” + +“I saw him come in first,” said John, “and Miss Fosbrook order him up and +say she would send him his dinner, and come and speak to him presently. +So I watched to catch her when she was coming up to him, and I saw Mary +bring him up some mince veal, and the last bit of the gooseberry pie; and +then, very soon, he bolted right downstairs. I didn’t think he could +have had time to eat the pie; and I was going to see if there was a bit +left, when I saw Bessie coming up, and I whipped up again.” + +“Then nobody went into the room between Henry and Bessie?” + +“No; there wasn’t any time.” + +The whole room was quite silent. There was no sound but a quick short +breathing from the Captain: but he had rested his brow upon his hand, and +his face could not be seen. It was as if something terrible had flashed +upon him, and he was struggling with the first shock, and striving to +deal with it. If they had seen him in a tempest, with his ship driving +to pieces on a rock, he would not have been thus shaken and dismayed. +However, by the time he looked up again, he had brought his face back to +its resolute firmness, and he spoke in a clear, stern, startling voice, +that made all the children quake, and some catch hold of each other’s +hands: “Henry! tell me what you have done with your theft!” + +Miserable Henry! He did not try to deny it any longer; but burst out +into a loud sobbing cry, “O Papa! Papa! I meant to have put it back +again! I couldn’t help it!” + +“Tell me what you have done with it!” repeated the Captain. + +“I—I paid it to Farmer Grice; I was obliged; and I thought I could have +put it back again; and some of it was my own!” + +“Fivepence-farthing!” cried David. “You thief, you!” + +The child’s fists were clenched, and his young face all one scowl of +passion, quite shocking to see. His father put him aside, and said, +“Hush, David! no names.—Now, Henry, what do you say to your sister for +your false accusation, which has thrown your own shame on her?” + +“Oh, no, no, Papa; he never did accuse me!” cried Bessie, for the first +time bursting into tears. “He never said I did it; that was only Davie’s +fancy; and it has made Susie and Sam so kind, I have not minded it at +all. Please don’t mind that, Papa!” + +“Come away, Henry!” said the Captain; “now that your sister has been +cleared, we had better have the rest out of the sight of these +tender-hearted little girls.” + +He stood up, and without a word, stroked down Elizabeth’s smooth brown +hair, raised her face up by the chin, and kissed her forehead, the only +place free from tears; then he took Henry by the shoulder, and marched +him out of the room. Bessie could not stop herself from crying, and was +afraid of letting Uncle John see her; so she flew out after them, and +straight up-stairs to her own room. Miss Fosbrook and Susan both longed +to follow her, but they had missed this opportunity; and the sound of +voices outside showed so plainly that the Captain and Henry were in the +hall that they durst not open the door. + +Everyone was appalled, and nothing was said for a few seconds. The first +to speak was Annie, in a low, terror-stricken whisper, yet with some +curiosity in it: “I wonder what Papa will do to him?” + +“Give him nine dozen, I hope!” answered David through his small white +teeth, all clenched together with rage. + +“For shame, Davie!” said Susan; “you should not wish anything so dreadful +for your brother.” + +“He has been so wicked! I wish it! I _will_ wish it!” said David. + +“Hush, David!” said Miss Fosbrook; “such things must not be said. I will +talk to you by and by.” + +“I am glad poor Bessie is cleared!” added Susan; “though I always knew +she could not have done it.” + +“To be sure—I knew it was Hal!” + +“Sam! you did?—why didn’t you tell?” cried Annie. + +“I wasn’t—to say—sure,” said Sam; “and I couldn’t go and get him into a +scrape. I thought he might tell himself, if he could ever make up the +money again!” + +“Yes,” said Susan; “he would have done that. He always fancied he should +get a sovereign from Colonel Carey.” + +“He talked till he thought so,” said Sam. + +“But what made you guess he had done so, Sam?” said Miss Fosbrook. “I +did suspect him myself, but I never felt justified in accusing him of +such a thing.” + +“I don’t know! I saw he had been getting into a fix with those +Grevilles, and had been sold somehow. They said something, and got out +of my way directly, and I was sure they had done some mischief, and left +him to pay the cost.” + +“Did you ask him?” said Susan. + +“What was the use? One never knows where to have him. He will eat up +his words as fast as he says them, with his _at least_, till he doesn’t +know what he means. Nor I didn’t want to know much of it.” + +“Still I can’t think how you could let poor Bessie live under such a +cloud,” said Christabel. + +“You didn’t believe it,” said Sam, “nor anyone worth a snap of my finger. +Besides, if I had known, and had to tell, what a horrid shame it would +have been if the naval cadetship had been to be had for him! I knew +Bessie would have thought so too, and then he would have been out of the +way of the Grevilles, and would have got some money to make it up.” + +“Then is there no chance of the cadetship now?” + +“Oh, we should have heard of it long ago if there had been! So I mind +the coming out the less; but it’s perfectly abominable to have had all +this row, and for Papa to be so cut up in this little short time at +home.” + +“I never saw him more grieved,” said Mr. Merrifield. “He was hardly more +overcome when your mother was at the worst.” + +They started, for they had forgotten Uncle John, or they would never have +spoken so freely; but he now put down his newspaper, and looked as if he +meant to talk. + +Susan ventured to say, “And indeed they had all been so very good before. +The pig made them so.” + +“A learned pig, I should think,” said her uncle, laughing good-naturedly. + +“We were obliged to take care,” said Susan, “or we got so many fines.” + +Christabel, finding that Mr. Merrifield looked at her, helped out Susan +by explaining that various small delinquencies were visited with fines, +and that the desire to save for the pig had rendered the children very +careful. + +“Indeed,” she said, “I was thankful for the incentive, but I am afraid +that it was over-worked, and did harm in the end:” and she glanced +towards David. + +“It is the way with secondary motives,” was the answer. + +Here Captain Merrifield came back alone; and his brother was the only +person who ventured to say, “Well?” + +“I have sent him to his room,” said the Captain. “It is a very bad +business, though of course he made excuses to himself.” + +The Captain then told them Henry’s confession. He had been too much +hurried by the fear of being caught, to take out his own share of the +hoard, and had therefore emptied the whole cupful into his +pocket-handkerchief, tied it up, and run off with it, intending to +separate what was honestly his own. What that was he did not know, but +his boastful habits and want of accuracy had made his memory so careless, +that he fancied that a far larger proportion was his than really was, and +his purposes were in the strange medley that falls to the lot of all +self-deceivers, sometimes fancying he would only take what he had a right +to (whatever that might be), sometimes that he would borrow what he +wanted, and replace it when the sovereign should be given to him, or that +the Grevilles would make it up when they had their month’s allowance. + +When he came to the farm Mr. Grice was resolved to take nothing less than +the whole sum that he had with him. Perhaps this was less for the value +of the turkey-cock than for the sake of giving the boys such a lesson as +to prevent them from ever molesting his poultry again. At any rate, he +was inexorable till the frightened Henry had delivered up every farthing +in his possession; and then, convinced that no more was forthcoming, he +relented so far as to restore the gun, and promise to make no complaint +to either of the fathers. + +At first Henry lived on hopes of being able to restore the money before +the hoard should be examined, but Colonel Carey went away, and, as might +have been expected, left no present to his brother’s pupils. Still Henry +had hopes of the Grevilles, and even when the loss was discovered, hoped +to restore it secretly, and make the whole pass off as a joke; but the +1st of August came, Martin and Osmond received their pocket-money, but +laughed his entreaty to scorn, telling him that he had shot the +turkey-cock, not they. Since that time, his only hope had been in the +affair blowing over—as if a sin ever _did_ blow over! + +“One question I must ask, Miss Fosbrook,” said the Captain, “though after +such a course of deceit it hardly makes it worse. Has he told any direct +falsehood?” + +She paused, and recollected. “Yes, Sir,” she said, “I am afraid he did; +he flatly told me that he had not touched the baby-house.” + +“I expected nothing else,” said the Captain gravely. “What has become of +Bessie?” + +“She ran up-stairs. May I go and call her?” said Susan. + +“I will go myself,” said her father. + +He found Elizabeth in the school-room, all flushed and tear-stained in +the face; and he told her affectionately how much pleased he was with her +patience under this false accusation. Delight very nearly set her off +crying again, but she managed to say, “It was Miss Fosbrook and Sam and +Susie that made me patient, Papa; they were so kind. And nobody would +have believed it, if I wasn’t always cross, you know.” + +“Not cross now, my little woman,” he said smiling. + +“Oh! I said I never could be cross again, now Mamma is better; but Miss +Fosbrook says I shall sometimes feel so, and I do believe she is right, +for I was almost cross to Georgie to-day. But she says one may _feel_ +cross, and not _be_ cross!” + +He did not quite know all that his little girl was thinking of; but he +patted her fondly, and said, “Yes, there is a great deal to be thankful +for, my dear; and I shall trust to you elder ones to give your Mamma no +trouble while I am afloat.” + +“I will try,” said Bessie. “And please, Papa, would you tell Nurse about +it? She doesn’t half believe us, and she is so tiresome about Miss +Fosbrook!” + +“Tiresome! what do you mean?” + +“She always thinks what she does is wrong, and she puts nonsense into +Johnnie’s head, and talks about favourites. Mary told Susan it was +jealousy.” + +The Captain spoke pretty strongly to Nurse Freeman that evening, but it +is doubtful if she were the better for it. She was a very good woman in +most things, but she could not bear that the children should be under +anyone but herself; and just as Henry lost the truth by inaccuracy, she +lost it by prejudice. + +Miss Fosbrook was glad to get away from the dining-room, where it was +rather awful to sit without her work and be talked to by Mr. Merrifield, +even though she liked him much better than she had expected. + +When David came to bed, she sat by him and talked to him about his angry +unforgiving spirit. She could not but think he was in a fearful temper, +and she tried hard to make him sorry for his brother, instead of +thirsting to see the disappointment visited on him; but David could not +see what she meant. Wicked people ought to be punished; it was wicked to +steal and tell stories, and he hoped Henry would be punished, so as he +would never forget it, for hindering poor Hannah from getting her pig. + +He would not understand Henry’s predicament; he was only angry, bitterly +angry, and watching for vengeance. Miss Fosbrook could not reason or +persuade him out of it, nor make him see that he could hardly say his +prayers in such a mood. Indeed, he would rather have gone without his +prayers than have ceased to hope for Henry’s punishment. + +Perhaps in this there was sense of justice and indignation against wrong +doing, as well as personal resentment. Miss Fosbrook tried to think so, +and left him, but not without praying for him, that a Christian temper of +forgiveness might be sent upon him. + +All the others were subdued and awe-struck. It was not yet known what +was to happen to Henry; but there was a notion that it would be very +terrible indeed, and that Uncle John would be sure to make it worse; and +they wished Miss Fosbrook good-night with very sad faces. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +NOTHING had as yet befallen Henry, for he came down to breakfast in the +morning; but his father did not greet him, and spoke no word to him all +the time they were in the room together. The children felt that this was +indeed terrific. Such a thing had never befallen any of them before. +They would much rather have been whipped; and even David’s heart sank. + +Something, however, was soon said that put all else out of his sisters’ +minds. The Captain turned to them with his merry smile, saying, “Pray +what would Miss Susie and Miss Bessie say to coming up to London with me +to see Mamma?” + +The two girls bounded upon their chairs; Susan’s eyes grew round, and +Bessie’s long; the one said, “O Papa!” and the other, “Oh, thank you!” +and they looked so overwhelmed with ecstasy, and all the three elders +laughed. + +“Then you will behave discreetly, young women?” + +“I’ll try,” said Susan; “and Bessie always does. Oh, thank you, Papa!” + +“Grandmamma should be thanked; she asked me to bring a child or two, to +be with Mamma when I go down to Portsmouth. We had thought of Susan; but +I think Betty deserves some amends for what she has undergone.” + +“Oh yes, Papa! thank you!” cried Susan, Sam, and David, from their +hearts; John and Annie because the others did so. + +“Then you won’t kick her out if she shares your berth, Sue?” + +“Oh, I am so glad, Papa! It is so nice to go together.” + +“Then, Miss Fosbrook, will you be kind enough to rig them out? I must +drive into Southminster at ten o’clock; and if you would be so good as to +see them smartened up for London there, I should be much obliged to you.” + +The mere drive to the country town was a great event in itself, even +without the almost incredible wonder that it was to lead to; and the +delights of which Ida and Miss Fosbrook had told them in London went so +wildly careering through the little girls’ brains, that they hardly knew +what they said or did, as they danced about the house, and ran up-stairs +to get ready, long before ten o’clock. + +Mr. Carey had been informed that his pupils would not come to him during +the few days of their father’s stay; and Sam begged to ride in on his +pony by the side of the carriage; but he was desired to fetch his books, +and call Henry, as his uncle wished to give them both an examination. +Was this the beginning of captivity to Uncle John? David and Johnnie +were quite angry. They considered it highly proper that Hal should be +shut up with Uncle John, but they thought it very hard that Sam should be +so used too; and Sam himself looked very round-backed, reluctant, and +miserable, partly at the task, partly at being deprived of the sight of +his father for several hours of one of those few precious days. + +Miss Fosbrook wished Susan to have sat on the front seat of the old +phaeton with her father; but he would not consent to this, and putting +the two little girls together behind, handed the governess to the place +of honour beside him, where she felt rather shy, in spite of his bright +easy manner. + +“I am afraid,” he said, after having flourished his whip merrily at +Johnnie, Annie, and Davie, who were holding open the iron gate, “that you +have had a tough job with those youngsters! We never meant you to have +been left so long to their mercy.” + +“I know—I know; I only wish I could have done better.” + +“You have done wonders. My brother hardly knows where he is—never saw +those children so mannerly.” + +Miss Fosbrook could not show how delighted she was. + +“I could hardly have ventured on taking those two girls to town unless +you had broken them in a little. I would say nothing last night till I +had watched Susan; for my mother is particular, and if my wife was to be +always worrying herself about their manners, they had better be at home.” + +“Indeed, I think you may quite trust to their behaving well. Those two +and Sam are so thoroughly trustworthy, that I had no real difficulty till +this unhappy business.” + +The Captain wanted to talk this over with her, and hear her account of it +once more. She gave it fully, thinking he ought to know exactly how his +children had acted in the matter, and wishing to explain where she +thought she had made mistakes. When she had finished, he said, “Thank +you,” and considered a little while; then said, “A thing like this brings +out a great deal of character; and a new eye sometimes sees more what is +in a child than those that bred him up.” + +“It has been a touchstone, indeed,” she answered. + +“Poor Hal!” he said sadly; then resumed, “I’ve said nothing of it yet to +the boys—but Admiral Penrose has promised to let me take out one with me. +I had thought most of Hal; he seemed to me a smarter fellow, more likely +to make his way than his brother; but this makes me doubt whether there +can be stuff enough in him. I might not be able to look after him, nor +do I know what his messmates may be; and I should not choose to risk it, +except with a boy I could thoroughly trust.” + +“Those young Grevilles seem to me Hal’s bane and temptation.” + +“Ay, ay; but if a boy is of the sort, he’ll find someone to be his bane, +wherever he goes. I’ll have no more of the Grevilles though. If he +should not go with me, my brother John would take him into his house, and +keep a sharp look out after him. Just tell me, if you have no objection, +how the boy strikes you. Most people think him the most taking of the +lot.” + +“So he is,” said Christabel thoughtfully; “he has more ease and +readiness, and he is affectionate and warm-hearted; but then he is a +great talker, and fond of boasting.” + +“Exactly. I told him that was the very way he learnt falsehood.” + +“I am afraid, too,” she was obliged to add, “that his resolutions run +away in talk. He has not much perseverance; and he is easily led.” + +“Well, I believe you are right; but then what’s to be done? I can hardly +afford to lose this chance; but Sam was always backward; and I doubt his +even caring to go to sea.” + +“Oh! Captain Merrifield!” + +“What! has he given you reason to think that he does?” She told him how +she had found Sam struggling with his longing for the sea and his father; +and how patiently the boy had resigned himself to see his brother put +before him, and himself condemned for being too dull and slow. + +“Did I say so? I suppose he had put me past my patience with blundering +over his lessons. I never meant to make any decision; but I did not +think he wished it.” + +“He said it had been his desire from the time he could remember, +especially when he felt the want of you during your last voyage.” + +“Very odd; how reserved some boys are! I declare I was vexed that it had +gone out of his head; though I thought it might be for the best. You +know I was not born to this place. I never dreamt of it till my poor +brother Sam’s little boy went off in a fever six years ago, and we had to +settle down here. Before that, we meant my eldest to follow my own +profession; but when he seemed to take to the soil so kindly, I thought, +after all, he might make the happier squire for never having learnt the +smell of salt water, nor the spirit of enterprise; but if it were done +already, the first choice is due to him. You are sure?” + +“Ask the girls.” + +He leant back and shouted out the question, “Sue! do you know whether Sam +wishes to go to sea?” + +“There’s nothing he ever wished so much,” was the answer. + +“Then why didn’t he say so?” + +“Because he thought it would be no use,” screamed Susan back. + +“No use! why?” + +“Because Hal says Admiral Penrose promised him. O Papa! are you going to +take Sam?” + +“Oh dear! we can’t get on without him!” sighed Elizabeth. + +“Are you sure he would like it?” said her father. “I thought he never +cared to hear of the sea.” + +“He can’t bear to talk of it, because it makes him so sorry,” said Susan. + +“And,” cried Bessie, “he burnt his dear little ship, the _Victory_, +because he couldn’t bear to look at it after you said _that_, Papa.” + +“After I said what?” + +“That he was not smart enough to learn the ropes.” + +“Very silly of him,” said the Captain, “to take in despair what was only +meant to spur him on. I suppose now I shall find he has dawdled so much +that he couldn’t get through an examination.” + +This shut up the mouths of both the girls, who were afraid that he might +not, since they saw a good deal of his droning habits over his lessons, +and heard more of Hal’s superior cleverness. + +Miss Fosbrook ventured to say, “You may expect a great deal of a boy who +works on a pure principle of obedience.” + +“You think a great deal of that youngster,” said the Captain, highly +gratified. “It is the first time I ever knew a stranger take to him.” + +“I did not take to him as a stranger. I thought him uncouth and dull. I +only learnt to love and respect him, as I felt how perfectly I might rely +on him, and how deep and true his principles are. If the children have +gone on tolerably well in your absence, it is because he has always stood +by me, and his weight of character has told on them.” + +Captain Merrifield did not answer at once; he bit his lip, then blew his +nose, and cleared his throat, before he said, “Miss Fosbrook, you have +made me very happy; it will make his mother so. She always rated him so +high, that I half thought it was a weakness for her eldest son; but +there! I suppose he was down-hearted about this fancy of his, poor boy; +and that hindered him from making the most of himself. I wonder what +sort of a figure he is cutting before his uncle!” + +The town was at length reached; and the shopping was quite wonderful to +the sisters. Miss Fosbrook found a shop where the marvellous woman +undertook to send home two grey frocks trimmed with pink, by the next +evening; and found two such fashionable black silk jackets, that Susie +felt quite ashamed of herself, though rather pleased; and Bessie only +wished she could see her own back, it must look so like Ida’s. Then +there were white sleeves, and white collars, that made them feel like +young women; and little pink silk handkerchiefs for their necks; and two +straw hats, which Miss Fosbrook undertook to trim with puffs of white +ribbon, and a pink rosette at each ear. Bessie thought they would be the +most beautiful things that had ever been in her possession, and was only +dreading that Sam would say they were like those on Ida Greville’s +donkey’s best harness; while Susan looked quite frightened at them, +whispered a hope that Mamma would not think them too fine, and that Miss +Fosbrook would not let them cost too much money; and when assured that +all fell within what Papa had given to be laid out, she begged that Annie +and little Sally might have the like. + +But as they were not going to London, Miss Fosbrook could not venture on +this; and as Bessie had set her affections upon a certain white chip hat, +with a pink border and a white feather, both sisters remained wishing for +something—as is sure to happen on such occasions. + +However, Elizabeth recovered from the hat when she was out of sight of +it; and they went and saw the cathedral, where the painted windows and +grave grand arches filled her with a truer and wiser sense of what was +beautiful; and then they walked a long time up and down under its +buttressed wall, waiting for Papa, till they grew tired and hungry; but +at last he came in a great hurry, and sorry to have been hindered. With +naval politeness, he gave his arm to Miss Fosbrook, and carried them off +to a pastry-cook’s, where he bade them eat what they pleased, and spend +the rest of the florin he threw them on buns for the little ones, while +he fetched the carriage; and so they all drove home again, and found the +rest of the party ravenous, having waited dinner for three-quarters of an +hour. + +Wonderful to relate, Uncle John had not eaten anybody up! not even Baby; +though Papa advised Susan to make sure that she was safe, and then sent +Sam to ask Purday for a salad. Perhaps this was by way of getting rid of +this constant follower while he asked his brother what he thought of the +boys’ attainments. + +Uncle John could not speak very highly of the learning of either; but he +said, “Sam knows thoroughly what he does know. As to the other, he +thinks he knows everything, and makes most awful shots. When I asked +them who Dido’s husband was, Sam told me he did not know, and Hal, that +he was Diodorus Siculus—_at least_, Scipio—no, he meant Sicyon.” + +“Then you think neither could stand an examination for the cadetship?” + +“I could not be sure of Sam; but I am quite sure that Hal could not.” + +Here the dinner-bell rang; the hungry populace rushed to the dining-room, +and the meal was gone through as merrily as could be, while still the +father never spoke to Henry. Uncle John was as pleasant and good-natured +as possible. Who would have thought of the marked difference he made +between dining with barbarians, or young gentlefolks! + +Dinner over, Captain Merrifield called Sam,—or rather, since that was not +necessary, as Sam was never willingly a yard from his elbow, he ordered +the others not to follow as they went into the garden together. + +“Sam,” he said, “Admiral Penrose is kind enough to offer me a berth in +the _Ramilies_ for one of you. If you can pass the examination, should +you wish to avail yourself of the offer?” + +Sam grew very red in the face, looked down, and twirled the button of his +sleeve. He certainly was not a gracious boy, for all he said was in a +gruff hoarse voice, without even thanks, “Not if it is for this.” + +“For this! What do you mean, Sam?” said Captain Merrifield, thinking +either that the boy was faint-hearted, or that his wish had been the mere +fancy of the girls. + +“Not if it is to punish Hal,” said Sam, with another effort. + +“That is not the question. Do you wish it?” + +Sam hung his head, and made his eyebrows come down, as if they were to +serve as a veil to those horrid tears in his eyes; and after all, his +voice sounded sulky, as he said, “Yes.” + +“Is that all?” said the Captain, angry and disappointed. “Is that the +way you take such an offer? If you had rather stay here, and be bred up +to be a country squire, say so at once; don’t mince the matter!” + +“O Papa!” cried Sam indignantly, “how can you think that? Didn’t I +always want to be like you?” + +“Then why can’t you say so?” + +“Because I can’t bear to cut Hal out!” said Sam, putting his arm over his +eyes, as a way he considered secret of disposing of his tears. + +“Put that out of your head, Sam; or if you don’t fancy the sea, have it +out at once.” + +“O Papa! please listen. You know, though Miss Fosbrook is very jolly, we +couldn’t help getting nohow when you were away, _us_ two particularly.” + +“You have no mischief to confess, surely, Sam?” said his father, really +imagining that this preference to Hal was acting on him so as to make him +mention some concealed misdemeanour; “if you have, you know truth is the +best line.” + +“But I haven’t, Papa,” said Sam, looking up, quite surprised. “You know +I am a year older, and couldn’t help caring more; and Miss Fosbrook is so +nice, one couldn’t bother her; but you see the Grevilles _would_ put it +into Hal’s head that it was stupid and like a girl to mind her. It is +all their fault; and they were sneaks about the turkey-cock, and wouldn’t +pay—and I know he would have ended by putting the money back when he +could, only Davie made such a row before he could; and he did so reckon +on the navy—he would pay it back the first thing.” The last sentences +came between gasps, very like sobs. + +“Have done with Hal,” said Captain Merrifield, still with displeasure. +“I wouldn’t take him now on any account. If the Grevilles lead him +wrong, what would he do among the mids? If he acts dishonourably here, +we should have him disgracing himself and his profession. Since he can’t +take it, and you won’t, I shall try to make some exchange of the chance +till John or David will be old enough.” + +“But Papa, I—” began Sam. + +“_I_ don’t want to force you to it,” continued Captain Merrifield, in his +vexed voice. “I never mean to force my sons to any profession if I can +help it; and you have a right to be considered. It has always been a +disadvantage to me, and to this place, that I was bred to the sea instead +of to farming; and though you can’t live on the property without some +profession, it may be quite as well that you should turn your mind to +something else—only if it be the army, I can’t help you on in it.” + +“I had rather go to sea, if you please,” said Sam. + +“Don’t say so to please me,” said his father. “I tell you, the +examinations are a pretty deal harder than they were in my time. It is +not a trade for a youngster to be idle in; and I won’t have you, just +when you’ve knocked about a few years, and are getting fit to be of use +on board and nowhere else, calling yourself heartily sick of it, and +turning round to say it was my doing.” + +“I’ll never do that, Papa,” said poor Sam, unable to understand why his +father should speak as though scolding him. + +“No? And mind, you must take the rough with the smooth, if you sail with +me, and not be always running after me, Papa-ing me. I can’t see after +you, and should only get you ill will if I tried.” + +“I had rather go,” said Sam. + +“I’m sure I don’t know what to make of you,” said his father, looking at +him in a puzzle. “However, if you do mean to go, you may tell Freeman to +get your things ready to come up with me on Thursday; only if you don’t +really like the notion, find out your own mind, and let me know in time, +that’s all.” + +The Captain turned away, and gave a long whistle—an accustomed +signal—that brought children and dogs all rushing and tumbling about him +together, to walk with him about the farm, and his brother among them; +but Sam hung back. He had not the heart to go with that merry throng; +for he did not know whether his father were not displeased with him, and +he therefore thought he must be to blame. + +People who, like Sam, rather cultivate the habit of gruffness and +reserve, and prefer to be short and rude, become so utterly unable to +express what they mean, that on great occasions they are misunderstood, +and give pain by supposed ingratitude and dislike, even when they feel +most warmly. Captain Merrifield could only judge from looks and words; +and even when Sam had been satisfied about Henry, he had shown so little +alacrity or satisfaction, as really to leave a doubt whether he were not +unwillingly yielding to his father’s wishes; which would have been a +mistaken act, as the Captain thought no one ought to be a sailor unless +with a very strong desire that way. Thus Sam really perplexed and +distressed his father, when he least intended it; and unable to +understand what was the matter, yet feeling heavy and sad, he turned +aside from the rest, and, by way of the quietest place he could find, +climbed up a tall pear-tree, to the very highest branch he could reach. +He put himself astride on one bough, his feet upon another below, and his +back leaning against the main stem. No one could see him up so high +among the thick leaves; but he could see all around the village, and over +the house; he could look down into the farm-court at the pigs burying +themselves in the straw; and out beyond at the geese and ducks in the +meadow, and the broods of chickens pecking and scratching about, or the +older poultry rolling in the dust-holes they had scraped for themselves. +He could see Purday among his cabbages in the garden; and further off, +could watch the walking-party through the fields, his father with little +George in his arms, and Uncle John as often as possible by his side; +while the others frisked about, sometimes spreading out like a flock of +sheep in the pasture land, or when they came to the narrow paths in the +cornfields, all getting into single file, and being lost sight of all but +their heads. + +Sam recollected how, the day when he had heard that he was not likely to +be a sailor, he had felt as if he hated Stokesley, and as if it would be +a prison to him, and how everything reminding him of the sea had been a +misery to him. He would not then have believed anyone who had told him +that he would really hear of his appointment and be so little glad. Yet +for two whole years the loss of the hope had weighed on him, and made him +dull whenever he thought of grown-up life, heard of the sea, or was asked +what he was to be: and almost always, at his prayers, he had that meaning +in his mind, when he said “Thy Will be done;” he had really submitted +patiently, and tried to put away the longing from his mind, and would, +there can be no doubt, have been happy and dutiful at home; but at length +the wish of his heart was suddenly granted. + +And then, wish though it still were, there came all this grief and +discomfort. The gladness was in him somewhere, but he could not get at +it, either for his own comfort, or that of his father. He missed his +mother exceedingly. _She_ would know what he meant, and tell Papa that +he did care to go. Yet, did he care so very much? Only think of +beginning to be a stranger at this dear old home! and seeing no mother, +no Susie, nor any of them, for years together—probably not his father +after the first voyage! However, the sailor was too strong in Sam for +that grief not to pass off; and his chief trouble was the sense of +supplanting Henry. He knew the disappointment would be most bitter; and +he could not get rid of the sense of having taken an unfair advantage of +the disgrace of Henry’s adventure. As to his father’s manner, he got +over that more easily, for his conscience was free; he knew that the tone +of displeasure would be gone at the next meeting, and he was too sure of +his own love of the sea to fear that he should not show it enough. After +all, he was to be a naval cadet! He could not be sorry. Nay, he felt he +had his wish; the very wish he had thought it wrong to put into a prayer. +He thought he ought to be thankful that it was granted, in the same way +as he had been when his mother began to recover. So he put his hands +together, and looked up into the summer blue sky through the leaves, and +his lips moved, as he whispered his thanks, and asked to be helped in +being a good brave sailor, and that something as good might happen to +poor Henry. + +After this, somehow, the weight was gone, he knew not where. All he +recollected was, that he should see Mamma in two days, and that he was to +sail with Papa if he could get through his examination. There was a sort +of necessity of doing something comical; and just then spying Miss +Fosbrook with a book walking slowly below, he could not resist the +temptation of sending down on her a shower of little hard pears and +twigs. + +Bob came one down on her book, and another on her bonnet. She looked up, +and saw a leg stretching out for a branch, apparently in such a dangerous +manner, that she did not know whether she should not have Sam himself on +her head next, and started back, watching as he swung himself from branch +to branch, and then slid down, embracing the trunk. + +“Did I hit you!” said he. “I couldn’t help trying it; it was such fun.” + +It was a great liberty; but she was so good-humoured as to laugh, and +said he had taken good aim. + +“Please, Miss Fosbrook,” next said he, “would you hear how many +propositions I can say!” And as she opened her eyes at this holiday +amusement, he added, “Papa has got the appointment after all, and means +me to have it.” + +“I am so glad, Sam! I give you joy!” she said, and took his hand to +shake it heartily. + +“I wish Hal could go too,” said Sam. + +“Dear Sam,” she said kindly, and guessing his feelings, as having gone +along with them, “I don’t wonder you are sorry for him; but indeed I +think it is better for him to be sheltered from beginning real life just +now.” + +“Papa said he would not have taken him,” said Sam; “but it seems so hard +to have all his life changed for a thing that sounds worse than he meant +it to be.” + +“Sam,” said Miss Fosbrook, “I once read a sermon, that said that our +conduct in little things does decide the tenor of our lives. You know +one moment of hastiness cost Moses the Promised Land; and only a little +while ago, we heard how Joash had but few victories allowed to him, +because he did not think it worth while to strike the ground as often as +Elisha told him. It is the little things that show whether we are to be +trusted with great.” + +“It is such a tremendous punishment,” said Sam, “when he would have put +it back again.” + +“My brother knew a banker’s clerk who was transported for borrowing what +he meant to put back again. No, Sam; people must bear the result of +their doings; and your father judges for Hal as much in kindness as in +anger.” + +“I know he knows best.” + +“You may see it as well as trust. With all his grand talk, do you really +think that Hal would not be upset at the first hardship, or that he could +face bullying or danger? Remember the bull, that was at least a vicious +cow, and turned out to be a calf.” + +Sam could not help laughing, as he said, “Yes, that would never do at +sea; and he would be done for if he were cowardly there. But I wish I +could get out of sight of him till I am gone. And please hear my Euclid; +I’ll get the book, if you’ll stay out here.” + +“Therefore, if the two sides of two triangles be equal to one another, +and the adjacent angles be equal each to each,” resounded through the +laurels, as the walking party returned. + +“Hallo! _al fresco_ Euclid!” exclaimed Uncle John, as Sam with a blush +ran after his blotted diagrams, as a sudden gust of wind blew them +dancing over the garden. Captain Merrifield caught one, and restored it +to Sam, with a pat on the back that made his teeth rattle in his head, +but which made him as happy as a young sea-king, showing that they +perfectly understood each other. + +But to be ever so good a boy does not carry one through the examinations +that stand at the door of every road of life for those who are not +wealthy. Sam knew he was the dull boy of Mr. Carey’s four pupils; and +though from sheer diligence he was less often turned back than the rest, +yet they could all excel him whenever they chose: his lessons all went +against the grain, and were a sore trouble to him; and his uncle had +shown much wrath to-day at his ignorance and backwardness. He was +therefore in a great fright, and gave himself and Miss Fosbrook no peace, +running after her every moment with his Euclid, his Colenso, or his +slate. + +“That boy will stupefy himself and his admirable cramming machine!” +exclaimed Uncle John, when coming out into the court after tea to talk to +Purday, the two brothers heard, “The complement A E is equal to the +complement D E,” proceeding out of the school-room window. + +“A truce with your complements to-night,” shouted the Captain; “come +down, Sam; I must have a game at hide-and-seek!” + +Though hide-and-seek on the lawn with Papa was the supremest bliss that +life had yet offered to the young Merrifields, and though Susan, Bessie, +Annie, and Johnnie, had all severally burst into the room to proclaim it +and summon Sam, he had refused them all; but this call settled it; he +broke off in the middle of his rectangle, and dashed down stairs, to the +great relief of kind Miss Fosbrook, who, with all her good-will, found +her head beginning to grow weary of angles and right-angles on a hot +evening in the height of summer. + +The summer-house was to be _home_, and there the party were +assembled—nine in number, for not only Papa, but Uncle John, was going to +play; and Henry, though forlorn and unnoticed, had wandered about with +the rest all day, trying to do as usual, to forget the heavy load that +pressed on him, and to believe that he was not going to be punished for +mere unluckiness in borrowing, and for not answering impertinent +questions. The world was very unlike itself to him; and he saw the +enjoyment without being able to enter into it, just as a sick person sees +the sunshine without feeling the warmth; but instead of penitence, he +merely tried to shake off his compunction. + +So there he stood in the ring, as Susan was finding out who was to be the +first to hide, by pointing to each, at each word of the formula, + + “Eggs, butter, cheese, bread, + Sticks, stocks, stones, dead.” + +“Dead” came to Uncle John, as perhaps Susan had contrived; and shrugging +up his shoulders, he went off to hide, and his whoop was presently heard. +He was not _very_ good game; maybe he did not wish to be very long +sought, for he was no further than in the tall French beans, generally +considered as a stupid place to hide in. The children had been in hopes +that he would catch Papa, which was always a very difficult matter, for +the sailor was lighter of foot, as well as, of course, longer in limb, +than any of the children; but they saw that Uncle John had not the +slightest chance with him, and it was Bessie who was caught in her +homeward race. + +Bessie was rather a good hider, and was searched for far and wide before +Sam’s “I spy! I spy!” gave the signal that a bit of the spotty cotton +had been seen peeping out from under Purday’s big potato-basket in the +tool-house, and the whole party flew towards home. Bessie would not aim +at Papa, for if so, she would certainly catch no one; but she hunted down +David, who was too sturdy to be a quick runner, and who was very well +pleased to be caught. + +“I’ll have Papa!” he said, as she captured him. “I know of such a +cunning place.” + +David’s place proved to be in among his likenesses, the cabbages, +immediately in front of the summer-house. There he lay flat on the very +wet mould, among the stout cabbages, all of which had a bead of wet in +every wrinkle of their great leaves, so that when Susan had at length +spied him, and he came plunging out, his brown-holland—to say nothing of +his knees—was in a state that would have caused most mammas to send him +to be instantly undressed; but nobody even saw it, and he charged +instantly towards the door of the summer-house, not pursuing anyone in +particular, but cutting all off from their retreat. He slipped aside, +however, and let all the lesser game pass by uncaught; his soul soared +higher than even Uncle John, who looked on exceedingly amused at the +small man’s stratagem, and at the long dodging that took place between +him and his father, the quick lithe Captain skipping hither and thither, +and trying to pop in one side while his enemy was on the other; and the +square, determined, little, puffing, panting boy, guarding his door, +hands on knees, ever ready for a dart wherever the attempt was made. The +whole party in the home nearly went into fits at the fun, and at the +droll remarks Uncle John made at this hare and tortoise spectacle; till +at last either the Captain gave in, or Davie made a cleverer attack than +ever, for with a great shout he flew upon Papa, and held him fast by the +legs. Everyone shrieked with delight; Papa hid in such clever places, +and when found, he roared so splendidly, that it struck the little ones +with terror, and did the hearts of the elders good, to hear him; indeed, +the greatest ambition Johnnie entertained was to roar like Papa. Then he +could make his voice sound as if out of any place he chose, so that no +one could guess by his “whoop” where to look for him; and this time it +seemed to be quite out at the other end of the kitchen-garden, where they +were all looking, when another “whoop” came apparently down from Sam’s +pear-tree on the lawn; and while they were peeping up into it, “whoop” +re-echoed from the stables! At last, as Annie was gazing up and round as +if she even thought it as well to look right into the sky for Papa, she +suddenly beheld the two merriest eyes in the world, on the roof of the +summer-house itself. He had been lying there on the thatch, watching at +his ease all the wanderings of the seekers, and uttering those wonderful +whoops to bewilder them. + +“I spy! I spy!” shrieked Annie, flying in, even while her father sprang +to the ground, and with Davie’s manœuvre on a larger scale, seemed to be +taking his choice of all the fugitives rushing up from all parts. + +One elder boy, and one younger, he was hunting down the gooseberry-path, +when just as he was about to pounce on the former, he said that it was +not Sam, stood still, and folded his arms. A shriek made him look round; +little David stood sobbing and crying piteously. + +“Davie! what, Davie! What is it, my man? Where are you hurt!” + +“No, no! I’m not hurt! Catch Hal, Papa.” + +“No, David. I do not play with boys that act like Henry.” + +“Speak to him, Papa; oh, speak!” + +“I shall, before I go,” said the Captain gravely. + +“Now, now! Papa. Oh, do! I did want him to be punished, but not like +this.” + +“No, David. If he can expect to play with me, and be treated like the +others, he is not in the state to receive forgiveness. There, have done +crying; let us go on with the game.” + +But David could not go on playing; he was too unhappy. Not to be +forgiven, even if punished, seemed to him too dreadful to happen to +anyone; and he thought that he had brought it all on Henry by his letter +of accusation. Tardily and dolefully he crept into the house; and Miss +Fosbrook met him, looking so woe-begone, that she too thought he had hurt +himself. She took him, dirt and all, on her lap; and there he sobbed out +that Papa wouldn’t speak to Hal, and it was very dreadful; and he wished +there were no such things as pigs, or money, or secrets; they only made +people miserable! + +“Dear Davie, they only make people miserable when they care too much +about them. Papa will forgive Hal before he goes away, I am sure; only +he is making him sorry first, that he may never do such a thing again.” + +“I don’t like it.” And David cried sadly, perhaps because partly he was +tired with having been on his legs more than usual that day; but his good +and loving little self was come home again. He at least had forgiven his +brother the wrong done to himself; and there was no hanging back that +night from the fulness of prayer; no, he rather felt that he had been +unkind; and the last thing heard of him that night was, that as Sam and +Hal were coming up-stairs to bed, a little white figure stood on the top +of the stairs, and a small voice said, “Hal, please kiss me! I am so +sorry I told Papa about—” + +“There, hold your tongue,” said Hal, cutting him short with the desired +kiss, “if you hadn’t told, someone else would.” + +But long after Sam was asleep, Hal was wetting his pillow through with +tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +STILL the silence lasted. Henry had tried at first to persuade himself +that it was only by chance that he never heard his own name from lips +that used to call it more often than any other. Indeed, he was so much +used to favour, that it needed all the awe-struck pity of the rest to +prove to him its withdrawal; and he was so much in the habit of thrusting +himself before Samuel, that even the sight and sound of the First Book of +Euclid, all day long, failed to convince him that his brother could be +preferred; above all, as Nurse Freeman had been collecting his clean +shirts as well as Sam’s, and all the portmanteaus and trunks in the house +had been hunted out of the roof. Once, either the spirit of imitation, +or his usual desire of showing himself off, made him break in when Sam +was knitting his brows frightfully over a sum in proportion. Hal could +do it in no time! + +So he did; but he put the third term first, and multiplied the hours into +the minutes, instead of reducing them to the same denomination; so that +he made out that twenty-five men would take longer to cut a field of +grass than three, and then could not see that he was wrong; but Miss +Fosbrook and Sam both looked so much grieved for him, that a start of +fright went through him. + +Some minds really do not understand a fault till they see it severely +visited; and “_at least_” and “_couldn’t help_” had so blinded Henry’s +eyes that he had thought himself more unlucky than to blame, till his +father’s manner forced it on him that he had done something dreadful. +Vaguely afraid, he hung about, looking so wretched that he was a piteous +sight; and it cut his father to the heart to spend such a last day +together. Mayhap the Captain could hardly have held out all that second +day, if he had not passed his word to his brother. + +The travellers were to set off at six in the morning, to meet the +earliest train: and it was not till nine o’clock at night, when the four +elder ones said good-night, that the Captain, following them out of the +room, laid his hand on Henry as the others went up-stairs, and said, +“Henry, have you nothing to say to me?” + +Henry leant against the baluster and sobbed, not knowing what else to do. + +“You can’t be more grieved than I am to have such a last day together,” +said his father, laying his hand on the yellow head; “but I can’t help +it, you see. If you will do such things, it is my duty to make you +repent of them.” + +Hal threw himself almost double over the rail, and something was heard +about “sorry,” and “never.” + +“Poor little lad!” said his father aloud to himself; “he is cut up enough +now; but how am I to know if his sorrow is good for anything?” + +“O Papa! I’ll never do such a thing again!” + +“I wish I knew that, Hal,” said the Captain, sitting down on the stairs, +and taking him between his knees. “There, let us talk it over together. +I don’t suppose you expected to steal and deceive when you got up in the +morning.” + +“Oh no, no!” + +“Go back to the beginning. See how you came to this.” + +As he waited for an answer, Hal mumbled out after some time, “You said we +need not go to church on a week-day.” + +“Well, what of that?” + +“I didn’t go in case the telegraph should come.” + +“There are different ways of thinking,” said his father. “Church was the +only place where I _could_ have gone that St. Barnabas’ Day.” + +“I would have gone,” said the self-contradictory Henry, “only the +Grevilles are always at one for being like a girl.” + +“Ha! now we see daylight!” said the Captain. + +“‘The Grevilles are at one,’—that’s more like getting to the bottom of +it.” + +“Yes, Papa,” said Hal, glad to make himself out a victim to circumstance; +“you can’t think what a pair of fellows those are for not letting one +alone; Purday says they haven’t as much conscience between them as a +pigeon’s egg has meat; and going down to Mr. Carey’s with them every day, +they let one have no peace.” + +“You will find people everywhere who will let you have no peace, unless +you do not care for them; though you will not be left to the Grevilles +any longer.” + +“Yes, Papa; when I am away from them, you will see—” + +“No, Hal, I shall not see, I shall hear.” + +“Shall not I sail with you, then, Papa?” + +“You will not sail at all: I thought you knew that.” + +“I thought the Admiral must have given you two appointments,” said Hal +timidly. + +“He gave me _one_, for one of my sons. The first choice is Sam’s right, +even if he had not deserved it by his brave patient obedience.” + +Hal hung his head; then said, “But, Papa, if Sam broke down in his +examination, please mightn’t I—” + +“No, Henry. Not only does your uncle say that though Sam’s success is +very doubtful, your inaccuracy would make your failure certain; but if +your knowledge were ever so well up to the mark, I could not put you into +the navy. Left to yourself here, you have been insubordinate, vain, +weak, shuffling: can I let you go into greater temptation, where disgrace +would be public and without remedy?” + +“Oh, but, Papa! Papa! Away from the Grevilles, and not under only a +governess—” + +“You shall be away from the Grevilles, and not under a governess. Your +uncle is kind enough to take you with him to his house, and will +endeavour to make you fit to try to get upon the foundation by the time +there is a vacancy.” + +“O Papa! don’t,” sobbed Henry. + +“I can’t help it, Hal! You have shown yourself unfit either for the sea +or for home. What can I do with you?” + +“Try me—only try me, Papa. I would—” + +“I cannot go by what you say you would be, but what you are. Deeds, not +words.” + +“But if you won’t let me go into the navy, only let me be in real +school.” + +“No, Henry; I have not the means of sending you there: excepting on the +foundation; and if you get admittance there at all, it will only be by +great diligence, and your uncle’s kindness in preparing you.” + +Henry cried bitterly. It was a dreadful prospect to do his lessons alone +with Uncle John in the boys’ play-hours, and be kept in order by Aunt +Alice when his uncle was in school. Perhaps his father would not have +liked it himself, for his voice was very pitying, though cheering, as he +said, “One half year, Hal, very likely no more if you take pains, and +you’ll get into school, and be very happy, so long as you don’t make a +Greville of every idle chap you meet.” + +Henry cried as though beyond consolation. + +“I hate leaving you this way,” continued his father; “but by the time I +come home you will see it was the best thing for you; and look up to +Uncle John as your best friend. Why, Hal, boy, you’ll be a tall fellow +of fourteen! Let me find you godly and manly: you can’t be one without +the other. There now, good night, God bless you.” + +More might have been said to Henry on his fault and what had led to it; +but what his father did say was likely to sink deeper as he grew older, +and had more sense and feeling. + +From him Captain Merrifield went to the school-room, where Miss Fosbrook +was packing up for the little girls, and putting last stitches to their +equipments, with hearty good-will and kindness, as if she had been their +elder sister. + +He thanked her most warmly; and without sending away the girls, who were +both busy tacking in little white tuckers to the evening frocks, he began +to settle about the terms on which she was to remain at Stokesley. He +said that he could not possibly have left his wife without a person on +whose friendly help and good management of the children he could depend. +Important as it was to him to be employed, he must have refused the +appointment if Miss Fosbrook had been discontented, or had not had the +children so well in hand. He explained that he had reason to think that +Mrs. Merrifield’s present illness had been the effect of all she had gone +through while he was in the Black Sea during the Crimean War. She had +been a very strong person, and had never thought of sparing herself; but +she and all her little children had had to get into Stokesley in his +absence; she had to manage the estate and farm, teach the elder children, +and take care of the babies, with no help but Nurse Freeman’s: and though +he had been wounded when with the Naval Brigade, and had been at death’s +door with cholera, the effects had done him no lasting harm at all; while +the over-strain of the anxiety and exertion that she had undergone all +alone had so told upon her, that she had never been well since, and he +much feared, would never be in perfect health again. He must depend upon +Miss Fosbrook for watching over her and saving her, as his little Susie +could not yet do; and for letting him know from time to time how she was +going on, and whether he ought to give up everything and come home. + +He had tears in his eyes as he thanked Christabel for her earnest promise +to watch and tend Mrs. Merrifield with a daughter’s care; and her heart +swelled with strong deep feeling of sorrow and sympathy with these two +brave-hearted loving people, doing their duty at all costs so steadily; +and she was full of gladness and thankfulness that they could treat her +as a true and trusty friend. He walked away, feeling far too much to +bear any eye upon him; and Susan was found to be crying quietly, making +her thread wet through, and her needle squeak at every stitch, at the sad +news that Mamma never was to be quite well, even though assured that she +was likely to be much better than she had been for months past. + +Bessie shed no tears; but Miss Fosbrook, who had been hindered all day by +Sam’s Euclid and Colenso, and had sat up till half-past eleven o’clock to +make the two Sunday frocks nice enough for the journey, on going into the +bed-room to lay them out for the morning, saw a little face raised from +the pillow of one of the small white beds, and found her broad awake. +Bessie never could go to sleep properly when anything out of the common +way was coming to pass, so that was the less wonder; but she had a great +deal in her head, and she was glad to get Christabel to kneel down by +her, to listen to her whispers. + +“Dear Christabel, I am so sorry. I never cared about it before!” + +“About what, my dear?” + +“What Papa said about when he was in the Black Sea. I never knew Mamma +cared so much.” + +“I dare say not, my dear; you were much younger then.” + +“And I didn’t know all about it,” said Bessie, “or else I’ve forgotten. +I have been trying to remember whether we ever thought about Mamma; and +oh, Christabel! do you know—I believe we only thought she was cross! Oh +dear! it was so naughty and bad of us!” + +“I can guess how it happened, my dear. You were not old enough to be +made her friends, and you could not understand quiet sorrow.” + +“To think we should have said she was cross!” + +“That was wrong, because it was disrespectful. You see, my dear, when +grown people are in trouble, you young ones can’t enter into their +feelings, nor always even find out that anything is amiss; and you get +vexed at there being a cloud over the house, and call it crossness.” + +“Grown-up people are sometimes cross, aren’t they?” said Bessie. “Nurse +is; and I heard Papa say Aunt Alice was.” + +“We have tempers, certainly,” said Miss Fosbrook; “and unless we have +conquered them as children, there will be signs of them afterwards; but +very few people, and certainly no children, can tell when grave looks, or +words sharper than usual, come from illness or anxiety or sorrow; and it +is the only way to save great grief and self-reproach to give one’s own +faults the blame, and try to be as unobtrusive and obliging as possible.” + +“And I am older now, and can understand,” said Bessie; “but then, it is +Susie that is right hand, and does everything.” + +“There’s plenty in your own line, Bessie—plenty of little kindly services +that are very cheering; and above all—” + +“What?” + +“Attending to your Mamma’s troubles will drive away your own grievances. +Only I will not talk to you any more now, for I want you to go to sleep; +if you lie awake, you will be tired to-morrow, and that will incline you +to be fretful.” + +“Fretful to-morrow!” + +Bessie could not believe it possible; and indeed Miss Fosbrook did not +think the chance great, as long as there was amusement and excitement. +The danger would be in the waitings and disappointments that will often +occur, even in the height of enjoyable schemes. + +It would take too long to tell of all the good-byes. The children old +enough to enter into the parting were setting off too; and Miss Fosbrook +felt more for the little ones than they did for themselves, as they +watched their father and uncle and two sisters into the gig, and the boys +into the cart, with Purday to drive them and the boxes, Sam sitting on +his father’s old midshipman’s chest, trying, as well as the jolting would +let him, to con over that troublesome Thirty-fifth Proposition, which +nine times repetition to Miss Fosbrook had failed to put into his head. + +Johnnie and Annie wished themselves going to sea, or to London, or +anywhere, rather than having the full force of Miss Fosbrook on their +lessons! She did not make them do more, but she took the opportunity of +making everything be done thoroughly, and, as they thought, bothered them +frightfully about pronouncing their words in reading, and holding their +pens when they wrote. After a little while, however, they found that +really their hands were much less tired, and their lines much smoother +and more slanting, than when they crooked their fingers close down over +the ink. Absolutely they began to know the pleasure of doing something +well, and they felt so comfortable, that they were wonderfully good; and +the pig fund might have had a chance, but David did not seem to think of +reviving it. Perhaps his great vehemence had tired itself out; and maybe +he was ashamed of the great disturbance he had made and all that had come +upon Henry, and did not wish to think of it again, for St. Katherine’s +fair-day passed over without a word of the pig. + +The young ladies were not great letter-writers; and all that was known of +them was that Mamma was better, they had been to the Zoological Gardens +and the hyena was so funny, and Mrs. Penrose was so nice. Then that Papa +and Sam were gone to Portsmouth, and that they had telegraphed that Sam +had succeeded. + +If it had been her own brother, Miss Fosbrook could not have been much +happier; and in honour of it she and the three children all went to drink +tea in the wilderness, walking in procession, each with a flag in hand, +painted by her for the occasion. + +Three days after, when the post came in, there was a letter directed to +Master David Douglas Merrifield, Stokesley House, Bonchamp. It was a +great wonder; for David was not baby enough, nor near enough to the +youngest, to get letters as a pet, nor was he old enough to be written to +like an elder one. He spelt the address all over before he made up his +mind to open it, and then exclaimed, “But it is not a letter! It’s +green!” + +“It is a post-office order, Davie,” said Miss Fosbrook. “Let me look. +Yes, for ten shillings. Write your name there; and if we take it to the +post-office at Bonchamp, they will give you ten shillings.” + +“Ten shillings! Oh, Davie!” cried Johnnie, “I wish it was to me!” + +“It just makes up for what Hal took, and more too,” said Annie. “Where +can it come from, Davie?” + +“From the Queen,” said Davie composedly; “the Queen always does justice.” + +Miss Fosbrook was quite sorry to confess, for truth’s sake, that she did +not think the Queen could have heard of the loss of the pig fund, and +that it was more likely to be from someone who wished to make up for the +disaster—who could it be? She looked at the round stamp upon the +green-lettered paper, and read “Portsmouth.” Could it be from Papa? +Then she looked at the cover; but it was not a bit like the Captain’s +writing; it was pretty, lady-like, clear-looking hand-writing, and +puzzled her a great deal more. If the children had once had a secret of +their own, there was a very considerable one to puzzle them now; and they +could hardly believe that Miss Fosbrook knew nothing about it, any more +than themselves. + +So restless and puzzled were they, that she thought they would never be +able to settle quietly to their lessons, and that it would save idleness +if she walked with them at once to Bonchamp to get the money. It was two +miles; but all three were stout walkers, and they were delighted to go; +indeed, they would have fancied that someone else might run away with the +ten shillings if they had not made haste to secure it. So “David Douglas +Merrifield” was written, with much difficulty to make it small enough, in +the very best and roundest hand. The boys were put into clean blouses, +Annie’s striped cotton came to light; and off set the party through the +lanes, each with sixpence in their hand, for it was poor fun to go to +Bonchamp, unless one had something to spend there. David wanted a knife, +Johnnie wanted a whip, Annie nothing in particular, only to go into a +shop, and buy—she didn’t know what. + +But the wonderful affair at the post-office must have the first turn; and +very grand did David feel as the clerk peeped out from his little hole, +and looked amused and gracious as the little boy stood on tiptoe to give +in his green paper. + +“Will you have it in gold or silver, Sir?” he asked. + +“In gold, please,” said David. + +It was something to have a bit of gold in one’s possession for the first +time in one’s life; and David felt as if he had grown an inch taller, and +were as good as six years old, as he walked away with the half sovereign +squeezed into his hot little palm. + +The toy-shop was at the end of the street, and in they went; Johnnie to +try all the whistles in the handles of the whips, and be much disgusted +that all that had a real sound lash cost a shilling; David to open and +shut the sixpenny knives with the gravity of a judge examining their +blades; and Annie to gape about, and ask the price of everything, after +the tiresome fashion of people, old or young, when they come out bent on +spending, but without any aim or object. However, Annie was kind, if she +were silly, and she was very fond of Johnnie; so it ended, after a little +whispering, in her sixpence being added to his, to buy a real good whip, +such as would crack, and not come to pieces. + +Just then, what should the children espy, but a nice firm deal box, +containing a little saw, a little plane, a hammer, a gimlet, a chisel, +and sundry different sizes of nails. Was there ever anything so +delightful, especially to David, who loved nothing so well as running +after George Bowles the carpenter, and handling his tools. What was the +price of them? + +Just ten shillings and sixpence. They were very cheap, the woman of the +toy-shop said. They had been ordered by an old lady at her grandson’s +entreaty; but afterwards a misgiving had seized her that the young +gentleman would cut his fingers, and she would not take them. + +“Miss Fosbrook,” whispered David, “may I give back the knife? then I +could buy it.” + +“You have bought and paid for it,” said Christabel. + +“Somebody else will buy the box,” said David wistfully. + +Miss Fosbrook, within herself, thought this unlikely, for nobody went to +Bonchamp for costly shopping; and she saw that the woman would gladly +have had the knife back, if she could have sold the tool-box, which, even +at this reduced price, was much too dear for the little boys who +frequented the shop. + +“Come away now, my dear,” she said decidedly. “No, another time, thank +you.” + +David was as nearly crying as ever he was, as he was forced to follow her +out of the shop. Those tools were so charming; his fingers tingled to be +hammering, sawing, boring holes. Had he lost the chance for that poor +blunt knife? Must he wait a whole fortnight for another sixpence, and +find the delicious tool-chest gone? + +“Dear Davie, I am very sorry,” said Christabel when they were in the +street. + +“That nasty knife!” cried David. + +“It is not the knife, Davie,” said she; “but that I want to think—I want +you to think—why these ten shillings must have been sent.” + +“Because we lost the money for the pig,” said David. “But Kattern Hill +fair is over, and I don’t want a pig now; I do want the gimlet to make +holes—” + +“Yes, David; but you know what was saved for the pig came from all of +you; you would have had no right to spend it on anything else, unless +they all had consented.” + +“This is my very own,” said David; “it was sent to me—myself—me.” + +“So it seems now; but just suppose you were to have a letter to say that +someone—poor Hal himself, perhaps—or Papa—had sent ten shillings to make +up the money for the pig, and directed it to you because you cared so +much, would it not be a shame to have spent the money upon yourself?” + +“Then they should not have sent it without saying,” said David. + +Miss Fosbrook thought the same, when she saw how hard the trial was to +the little boy; but she hoped she was taking the kindest course, as she +said, “Now, David, in nine days time, if you are good, you will have had +another sixpence. I see no chance of the tools being sold; or if they +are, I could send for such a box from London. By that time, perhaps, +something will have happened to show who sent the money, and why.” + +“And if it is all for myself, I may have the tools!” cried David. + +“You shall have them, if you really think it is right, when Monday week +comes.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +IDEAS were slow in both entering or dying out of David’s mind; but while +there they reigned supreme. Carpentry had come in as the pig had gone +out, and with the more force, because a new window was being put into +Mamma’s room; and George Bowles was there, with all his delightful tools, +letting the little boys amuse themselves therewith, till they had hardly +three sound fingers between them; and Nurse Freeman, when she dressed +their wounds, could not think what was the use of a lady if she could not +keep the children from hurting themselves; but Miss Fosbrook thought that +it was better that boys should get a few cuts and bruises than that they +should be timid and unhandy. + +One evening, all the party walked to carry to Hannah Higgins’s little +girl a pinafore that Annie had been making. She was a nice, tidy woman, +but there was little furniture in her house, and she looked very poor. +The garden was large, and in pretty good order; and there was an empty +pig-sty, into which Annie peeped significantly. + +“No, Miss Annie, we haven’t no pig,” said Mrs. Higgins. “Ben says, says +he, ‘Mother, when I’m taken on for carter boy, see if I don’t get you a +nice little pig, as will eat the garden stuff, and pay the rent.’ + +“Oh, but—” began Annie, and there she came to a sudden stop. + +“Is he likely soon to be a carter boy?” asked Miss Fosbrook. + +“No, Ma’am; he is but ten years old, and they don’t often take them on +under twelve; but he is a good boy to his mother, and a terrible one for +leasing.” + +Miss Fosbrook was obliged to have it explained to her that “leasing” +meant gleaning; and she saw the grand pile of small neat bundles of wheat +put out to dry on the sunny side of the house. + +“O Davie!” cried Annie, as soon as they were outside the gate, “sha’n’t +we get the pig for Hannah?” + +“It is my money, not yours; I shall do what I please with it,” said +David, rather crossly. + +Miss Fosbrook pulled Annie back, and desired her to let David alone; +herself wondering what would be the effect of what he had seen. + +He had been eager to do good to Hannah when no desire of his own stood in +the way; but a formed wish had arisen in his mind, and he loved himself +better than Hannah. Christabel dreaded the clearing-up of the secret of +the post-office order, lest he should be proved to love himself more than +right and justice. + +There were not many letters from the absent pair of sisters; they seemed +to be much too busy and happy to write, and appeared to be “seeing +everything,” and to be only just able to put down the names of the +wonders. The chief of all, however, was that kind Mrs. Penrose had +actually taken them to Portsmouth for a couple of nights, to see the +_Ramilies_, in which she was going to remain till it sailed. They had +sat in the Admiral’s cabin, and had slept upon “dear little sofas,” where +they wished they always slept; they had been in Papa’s cabin, which was +half filled up with a great gun, that can only be fired out at the window +(scratched out, and “port-hole” put in.) + +“Oh, how delightful! I wish I had a big gun in my room!” cried Johnnie. + +And they had seen Sam’s chest; and Sam did look so nice in his uniform; +and he had dined with them every day. They had dined late, with the +grown-up people; and the Admiral was so kind, only rather funny. + +Annie wished she were as old as Bessie, as much as John wished to have a +gun filling up his whole bed-room. + +The next day, their Papa had taken them into the country to see Lady +Seabury, Bessie’s godmother, a very old lady indeed, older than +Grandmamma, and who could not move out of her chair. “She gave me—” +wrote Bessie. There again something had been scratched out, and “a kiss” +written overhead. + +That something was quite a long word, but it had been very completely +blotted out; not like the “window,” which had only a couple of cross +bars, through which it could be plainly read; but there had plainly been +first an attempt at smearing it out with the finger, and that not +succeeding, an immense shiny black mess, like the black shade of a chafer +grub, had been put down on it, and had come off on the opposite side of +the sheet. + +What could the word be? Annie and David were both sure they could read +the lines through all the blot. The first letter was certainly S. + +“But,” said Miss Fosbrook, “do you think it is quite honourable to try to +read what Bessie did not mean us to see?” + +They did not quite enter into this, but they left off trying. + +“Mamma had been out in the carriage several times; and they were all +coming home on Saturday week”—that was the best news of all—“and then we +have a secret too for Miss Fosbrook.” + +David said he was tired of secrets, and would not guess. Annie guessed a +great deal; but Miss Fosbrook thought more about the word she would not +try to read. She began to have a strong suspicion from whom the +post-office order had come, and was the more uneasy about the spending of +David’s half sovereign; but she durst say nothing, for she knew it could +do no good if he felt himself compelled against his own will; and she saw +that he was full of thought. + +One day the lawn had been mown, and the children where all very busy +wheeling their little barrows, and loading them with the short grass; +David was with them at first, but when Purday left off work, he marched +after the old man in his grave deliberate way, and was seen no more till +nearly tea-time, when he walked into the school-room with a very set look +upon his solemn face, and sat himself down cross-legged on the locker, +with a sigh that seemed to come out of the very depths of his heart. + +“What’s the matter, David?” + +He made no answer, and Miss Fosbrook let him alone; but Annie presently +bounced in, crying out, “Davie, Davie! where were you? we have been +hunting for you everywhere! Where did you go?” + +“I went with Purday.” + +“What, to milk the cows?” + +“Yes.” + +“And then?” + +“I went with him to Farmer Long’s, to see his little Chinese pigs.” + +“And you have bought one! O Davie!” + +“Purday is to ask the farmer about the price to-morrow morning, because +he wasn’t at home.” + +“Then you won’t get the carpenter’s tools?” said Annie. + +“No,” said David; “Purday said tools that they make for little boys never +will cut.” + +“So you told Purday all about it?” + +David nodded his head. + +“Oh, do tell me what Purday said!” continued Annie. + +“It’s nothing to you,” said David bluntly. But by and by, when John came +in, and a few more questions were asked, David let out that Purday had +said, “Well, he thought sure enough if the money was sent to Master David +for that intent, he did not ought to spend it no other ways; and whether +or not, Hannah Higgins was a deserving woman; and Master Davie didn’t +know what it was like never to have a bit of bacon ne’er a Sunday in the +winter. He couldn’t say but it was hard that those poor folks should get +nothing but bread and cabbages from week’s end to week’s end, just that +Master Davie might spoil bits of deal board with making chips of them.” + +And when David was sure he shouldn’t spoil his wood, Purday had told him +that them toy-shop young gentleman’s tools were made to sell, and not +made to cut. Best save up his money, and buy one real man’s tool after +another; and then he’d get a set equal to George Bowles’s in time! + +Though so young, David was long-sighted and patient enough to see the +sense of this, and had already made up his mind that he would begin with +a gimlet. And though he did not say so, and the first resolution had +cost a very tough struggle, his heart seemed to have freed itself in that +one great sigh, and he was at peace with himself. + +Miss Fosbrook was very glad he had gone to so wise and good an adviser as +Purday, and was almost as happy as David himself. She gave him and John +leave to go with Purday the next day to bargain for the pig, as David was +very anxious for one in especial, whose face he said was so jolly fat; +and it was grand to see the two little boys consequentially walking on +either aide of Purday, who had put on his whitest round frock for the +great occasion. + +Farmer Long was at home; he came out and did the honours of his ten +little pigs; and when he found which was David’s favourite, he declared +that it was the best of the lot, and laughed till David blushed, at the +young gentleman’s having got such an eye for a pig. “It was a regular +little Trudgeon,” said Purday, (meaning perhaps a Trojan;) and it was +worth at least twelve shillings, but the farmer in his good-nature +declared that little Master should have it for the ten, as it was for a +present. Hannah’s boy was working for him, and was a right good lad, and +he would give him some straw for the pig’s bed when he went home at +night. Then he took the two boys into the parlour, and while Purday had +a glass of beer in the kitchen, Mrs. Long gave each of them a big slice +of plum-cake, and wanted very much to have given them some wine, but that +they knew they must not have; and she inquired after their Mamma and +Papa, and made them so much of visitors, that David was terribly shy, and +very glad when it was over, though John liked it, and talked fast. + +As to the giving the pig, that was a serious business; and David felt hot +and shy, and wanted to get it over as soon as possible without a fuss. + +So he bolted into Mrs. Higgins’s cottage, put his hands behind his back, +and spoke thus:—“Please, Mrs. Higgins, put your pig-sty in order! We’ve +all done it—at least they all wanted to—and a green order came down in a +letter—and we’ve bought the pig, and Ben will drive it home when he comes +from work!” + +And then, as if he had been in a great fright, he ran away; while Johnnie +stayed, and, when Hannah understood, received so many curtsies, and +listened to so much pleasure, that he could hardly think of anything +else, and felt very glad that _some_ pence of his had been in Toby +Fillpot. + +Annie said that it was not fair that she had not been at the giving the +pig; and Miss Fosbrook was a little disappointed too; but then it was +much better that David should not want to make a display, so she would +not complain, and comforted Annie by putting her in mind that they could +go and see the little pig in his new quarters. + +A few days more, and the carriage was driving up to the door with dear +Mamma in it, and—why, there were three little girls, not two! One look, +and the colour came into Christabel’s face. It was her youngest little +sister, Dora, who sat beside Bessie! Mrs. Merrifield had gone to see +Mrs. Fosbrook, and ask if she could take anything for her to her +daughter; and she had been so much shocked at the sight of the little +pale London faces, that she had begged leave to take home one of the +children to spend a month with her sister at Stokesley, since Miss +Fosbrook could not be spared to go home at present. Was not that a +secret for Christabel? How these two sisters did hug each other! + +But the Stokesley secrets have lasted long enough; and there is no time +to tell of the happy days of Dora’s visit, and the good care that Johnnie +took of her whenever she went out, and of her pretty quiet ways that made +Bessie take her for her dearest of friends. And still less can be told +of the smooth, peaceful, free spirit that seemed to have come home with +Mamma, even though she was still able to do little among the children, +for the very having her in the house appeared to keep things from going +wrong. + +One thing must be told, however, and that is, that when Annie told all +the wonderful story of the post-office order and the Chinese pig, Bessie +grew redder and redder in the face, and Susan squeezed both her hands +tight together, and said “May I tell, Bessie!” + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STOKESLEY SECRET*** + + +******* This file should be named 3411-0.txt or 3411-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/4/1/3411 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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